


The Bastard Reborn

by Valkyrist



Series: The Scattered Wolves [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrist/pseuds/Valkyrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After prowling the North in his direwolf form, Jon Snow returns to Winterfell, and is resurrected by the power of R'hllor. Following a disturbing message from his sister, Jon and Lady Melisandre set sail to the doomed city beyond the Wall, to recover a sacred weapon for their mounting war against the Others. This story is the sequel to "Blood of the Direwolf".</p><p>[Follows the events of ADWD, and may contain #SPOILERS#]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon in the Wolfsood

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story follows on from book 5, so if you're a non-reader, and want to avoid spoilers, then stop now. For everyone else, enjoy :)
> 
> This is the sequel to "Blood of the Direwolf", which depicted Arya Stark's return to Westeros, and her crusade to reclaim lordship over the North, and wreak a bloody vengeance on the false lords Roose Bolton and Bowen Marsh. The novella (which can be read here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/297398/chapters/476291) concluded with Arya pledging fealty to King Stannis Baratheon. "The Bastard Reborn" continues that story, but this time, we follow Jon Snow, who is currently prowling the Wolfswood in the form of his direwolf Ghost (having been slain months prior, during the Night's Watch mutiny). He has reunited with Nymeria, and the two beasts are struggling to survive in the harsh Northern winter.

**Jon in the Wolfswood**

The white wolf knelt over the twitching thing. He could smell its warm blood, a red pool drawing out across the snow. The deer kicked and shuddered. Yet as the two great beasts loomed over it, all of its fear melted away, and there was only sorrow.

“He’s afraid to die,” the white wolf whispered to his sister.

“It is meat, brother. If we do not eat it, _we_ will die. This is the way of things.” Nymeria padded forward, and with a bark, sunk her teeth in the deer’s broken neck. Jon watched as the creatures eyes faded clear, and then buried his own snout into its belly. The soft flesh opened up, and his mouth was filled with hot, meaty juices. Jon felt dizzy as twisted tendons tore from bone, and a warm red tide dissolved the snow beneath their paws. It felt so good it hurt, but too soon the meat grew cold and foul, and Jon knew that there was no life left in it… and he felt ashamed.

“You are a wolf,” Nymeria growled. “You must forget the ways of men, or we will both starve and freeze, and be eaten by greater beasts.”

“What beasts!?” Jon snapped back. “There is nothing left in these frozen woods… no warmth, no food, no light, no smells… only the wind’s scream and the cloud’s teeth. The world is dead!”

Nymeria threw back her head and howled in frustration, but as always, there was no reply. “I’m not dead,” she whispered, sadness on her breath. “And you’re not dead… The pack survives.” She grabbed the carcass with her teeth, and began to drag it with her teeth, leaving a trail of thick black snow in her wake. She propped the deer up against a large oak tree, and dug herself into its roots.

“The pack survives…” Jon repeated, climbing on top of her. “The Old Gods will protect us.” He licked the dried blood from his sister’s mouth, and held still as she did the same to him. Soon the wind faded, and their thoughts fell into shadow. Sleep was their one refuge. They could sleep for hours, and never fear another predator, for there was no beast greater than a direwolf, and they were two. Jon dreamed of daggers in the dark, and of a girl touched by fire.

***

The white wolf woke stiff and starving, his matted coat caked in morning frost. He tore himself free of the tree roots, and barked at his sister to get up. Nothing had changed since the night before. The dark spider trees still swayed to the winds evil song, with not a hint of life or love to give them hope. Every part of Jon ached, and when he looked up, he saw a bruised sky which promised a thousand shards of frozen teeth. “Snow,” it seemed to taunt. “Snow… Snow… Snow…” _I hate you,_ he thought, growling at the sky, _and I will always hate you._

“Where should we go now?” Nymeria yawned, stretching out here claws. “We tracked that deer for many moons, and now there is nothing left but crushed bone.” She padded up to Jon, and licked his ear, but he snapped her away. He was not in the mood. “When I was in the land of hills and rivers,” she continued. “There were lots of deer… and bulls, and rabbits, and squirrels, and even fish. Have you ever had fish, brother? I haven’t seen a lake that wasn’t frozen in these parts.”

“Which way is it?” Jon asked wearily, but Nymeria gave no answer. The world around them seemed so strange now. Winter had consumed the earth, and spewed back something dead and rotting. “We can’t leave the forest. The trees are our only shield. Let’s try and find that cave again.”

The two wolves wandered for a while in silence. After a time, the moon returned, and they slept, and woke, and walked some more. The mornings were always the worst. In the night air, their blood froze beneath the skin, and every day they went without food, more of their fur would fall out. Jon’s coat was thinning, but Nymera had loft big clumps of hair from her belly, and her skin had grown pale and loose. _I have to find her some food,_ Jon thought. _I cannot let her starve._ But any tracks they might pursue were washed away by the snow and icy rain, and the scents of the world had faded into nothing. Even the trees were turning into skeletons. They walked along a path they could not see, to a place they did not want to reach, yet to stop was to give up, and wolves were stronger than that.

Jon thought of the day they had been reunited. They had hugged and howled as one; a howl so great that even the winds were silenced… but no more. He remembered hearing his sister’s voice that day; not his wolf sister, but his real sister; the wild one they called “Ar-Yah”. She had told him to meet her at the Wall, but he was a wolf now, and the caves and halls of men were not his place. It was too painful. His brothers had bitten him with their long claws of steel and hate, and his life-blood had poured out of him in one long, endless stream. After that he was only a wolf, bounding across the snow, to a place where no one could hurt him anymore.

Sometimes the ghosts of his first life would haunt him—visions of roaring fires and cold marches; of singing faces and clashing steel; of music and monsters—but above all, he saw a pale girl with fire in her hair, whose laughter tasted so sweet it hurt. _Ygritte,_ he wanted to howl, so long and loud that the world would break in two… but he couldn’t. Not anymore. He had fought it for a long time, but finally the wolf devoured the man, and the voice of Jon Snow was silenced by Ghost.

***

One day, as the pale sun billowed beneath the cracked treetops, an odd smell returned to the world. The two wolves had been walking all day, when suddenly the faintest whiff of meat drifted into their mouths.

“Flesh!” Nymeria yelped, limping as quickly as she could into the clearing ahead.

“Man flesh,” Jon agreed, his mouth watering. As they waded through the hills of snow, a huge spider tree rose up to meet them. Hanging from its twisted, black branches were the bodies of many men, pale and broken. Nymeria broke into a trot, barking with glee.

“The Old Gods,” she said. “It must be.” As they got closer, Jon saw that thick, coils of vine had been tied around the men’s throats, suspending them above the ground. Their faces were twisted in expressions of fear and anger and sorrow, and their eyes were sunken deep into their skulls. Their skin was bone white, and shredded rags of wool hung from their bruised bodies like cobwebs. And yet they were mostly untouched by the wild.

“Why haven’t the birds eaten them?” Jon called anxiously.

“What birds?” Nymeria cried back. “The cold has kept them for us.” _The cold is our enemy_. Jon felt nervous. Nymeria managed to scramble her way part way up the tree trunk, and grab hold of one of their legs. She ripped her head back and forth, and the man broke in two at his belly. His legs fell to the snow amidst a flow of black, half-frozen muck.

“You can’t eat that,” Jon said. “These are men. Wolves can’t eat men. That’s the way of things.”

“These are _dead_ men, brother,” she replied biting into the frozen flesh. “And meat besides. They were meant for us to have. ‘The Old Gods’, you said. See…” Jon looked into the trunk of the tree, and saw a strange face staring back at him. It was carved into the wood, and tears of blood seemed to have stained the wrinkled bark beneath its deep eyes. _The Old Gods… They are watching us… Protecting us from the cold…_ Jon stared up at the bodies again. There were so many of them to choose from, and the cold had kept them from rotting.

But these were men. He couldn’t eat them. His stomach growled in disagreement. His eyes moved back and forth across the branches. The smell of blood and flesh and meat became stronger. Nymeria tore and slurped at her carcass. “Join me, brother,” she said through black lips. “It’s not great, but it’s food.” _No,_ Jon thought, _I can’t. You are a wolf,_ another voice said. _This is the way of things._

Jon noticed that one of the bodies was not a man, but a woman. She was not old, and yet her skin looked ancient. Her dark mangy hair draped down torn bloodied robes. Her face was bruised and twisted into look of pure hatred, and her throat was marred with deep purple gashes.

As Jon peered into her sad, sunken eyes, a vision came to him from his old life. A vision of that same woman staring at him from above; that same loathing pointed at him. “Mother,” he had called her once, long ago, and she had slapped him for it. “Bastard,” she had spit back. “You do not belong here.”

 _You can’t, Jon Snow, this is wrong,_ a voice in his head whispered. _You must,_ roared another, _for you are a wolf, Ghost, and you do belong here._ Angry blood ran through his veins, and without thinking, his claws scrambled up the tree trunk, and wrapped around the dead woman. The branch that held her snapped, and they both fell to the ground with a wet thump. He opened his jaws wide, and closed them hard around the women’s throat. His teeth pushed through frozen skin, and touched the cold blood and meat beneath. He ripped his head back, and swallowed bitterly. The meat slid down his throat, and it tasted so awful that he almost wretched it back up.

“Good, huh?” Nymeria called, and she threw back he head and let out a great soaring howl. Jon’s stomach growled for more, and he tore off another strip of flesh, and then another, and another, and another, each mouthful slightly better and warmer than the one before it. _No,_ whispered the man. _This is wrong._ _You must,_ roared the wolf. _This is right… and she deserves it._

Jon took another bite, and felt something small and slimy squirming against his gums. He looked down at the woman, and watched with horror as a thousand tiny green worms poured out of her half eaten neck. The dead body gave a sickened crack, as head broke from body, and a throbbing wave of maggots wriggled across the snow.

“No,” he whimpered, feeling more ashamed than he could bear. Now he saw the woman as she had been. Jon remembered the day he had fallen from his horse, as a young boy. He had not wanted her to see him cry, but rather than scold him, the woman had cleaned the blood from his knee, and hoisted him back onto his horse. “Be careful, Jon,” she had said. “That’s a boy, both hands on the harness. I’ll have Maester Luwin take a look when we return.”

“I’m sorry,” he wept. “I didn’t… I’m so sorry…” He licked the bloody stump of her neck, but it was no use. She was already dead. She had been dead for years. He dragged the body over to the base of the Weirwood, and began to dig a hole with his paws. When it was deep enough, he pushed the women into the grave, and covered it with mud and ice once more. “Rest now, Lady Catelyn,” he whimpered. “And be at peace…”

***

They slept beneath the tree of corpses that night, under the watchful gaze of the Old Gods. Jon refused to take another bite, but Nymeria fed from the flesh of three different men. She fell asleep beside him, warm and well-fed. But Jon was troubled, and once again the northern winds howled with an eerie menace. _“Snow…”_ they called. _“Snow… Snow… Snow…”_

As Jon slept, frightening images enter his mind. He dreamt of icy claws were scratching at his arms and chest. She saw a white landscape, bathed in shadow. Fierce storm clouds were rolling across a grey sky. There were figures all around him, tearing at his skin. They were dead men, with yellow, rotting skin, and black holes where their eyes should be. In the distance, Jon could see a host of white wraiths, galloping across a sea of red snow. They were demons, carved of ice, and their armour shone like glass. They rode dead horses, and their swords were cold and sharp. Jon heard a war-horn screech above the winds, and its song made his flesh burn. He tried to scream, but he had no voice. The demons were at his throat now, and he could see the ground around him growing red. In the distance he heard howling, and then—

Jon woke with a gasp. He scrambled to his feet, panting heavily, and shook the frost from his coat. His eyes darted back and forth along the horizon, but there was nothing there. Nymeria was growling gently in her sleep.

“What were those things?” he whispered to the darkness, but he knew exactly what they were. _White wraiths on dead horses… The Others have awoken in the north…_ His panting slowed down, as the still, silence of the Wolfswood took hold. The night sky still glimmered above him, and bodies of dead men swung eerily in the breeze. Jon was about to return to his slumber, when he heard the voice, faint and placid on the breeze.

 “Snow…” it murmured. “Jon Snow…”

The wolf’s fur bristled. “Show yourself!” he roared, anger and fear and frustration rushing through him. “Come out and face me demon!”

Nymeria was woken by the noise. “What is it?” she hissed, scrambling to her feet. “Hunters?” Jon was pacing back and forth now. His sister quickly padded up beside him, baring her teeth.

“Snow…” the trees rustled. “Snow… Snow… Return to us, Snow…” Jon snarled, and snapped at the wind.

“Who are you?” he cried, slamming his claws against the Weirwood, and tearing a chunk of bark from it. “What do you want?!” And then he saw it. The face of the Weirwood was looking at him, and its mouth was calling in a soft, strange tone. He backed away, suddenly very frightened. Nymeria was growling in a low tone, but she dared not come closer.

“Jon Snow…” the tree called in a whispering tune. “I see you. You are not a wolf… but a man… a man of the Night’s Watch… Come back to us…” The wind was blowing strong now, and it seemed to come from every direction. The hanging corpses swung to and fro like chimes in a storm. Nymeria became very silent, and fell behind her brother.

Jon crept towards the talking tree, and looking long and deep into its weeping eyes. Inside he saw a man more bone than flesh, who stared back at Jon with a single red eye. The man sat upon a Weirwood throne, his withered limbs bound with vines and branches, and his ragged clothes eaten away by moss and worms. Upon his head sat a crown of mushroom. The wolves and the wind fell silent all at once, and the wooden man whispered to Jon as though were both within a cave, far beneath the earth.

“Child of dragons and wolves, I have one here who wishes to speak with you.” Beside the tree-man sat a small boy. He saw a deep sadness buried in the lad’s eyes, but as they met with Jon’s, a warm smile spread across his tiny face.

“Bran…” Jon whispered, wanting to cry. “I… I knew you were alive… You saved me at Queenscrown… You and Summer.” The boy reached out his hand, and patted the panting grey direwolf at his side. Nymeria crept up to the Weirwood, and touched the trunk with her paw. Jon stepped closer as well.

“I have been looking for you Jon. I thought I had lost you forever.” There were tears in Bran’s eyes, but his smile would not fade.

“They said…” Jon sputtered in his wolf tongue. “Everyone said you were dead. Where are you?”

Bran opened his mouth to speak, but the tree-man interrupted. “He is quite safe, and surrounded by friends and protectors. It is you who is in the greatest danger, Jon Snow. Winter has come, and the dead come with it.”

“I am with the Children of the Forest,” Bran cried. “Just like Old Nan’s stories. Remember?”

“Aye,” the tree-man continued. “Bran is learning to sing the songs of the earth. But you must walk a different path Jon Snow, for you are the ‘prince who was promised’, and yours is the song of ice and fire.” Jon padded closer, and pressed his snout against the eyes of the Weirwood. The tree-man placed his withered hand on Bran’s shoulder, and leaned forward. “The enemy is moving, Jon Snow, and their coming into your realm will herald the blackest winter in over a thousand years. You must return to the halls of men and stop them.”

“How?” Jon breathed, his nostrils filling with a hundred aromas of leaf and sap and spice.

“Seek out the sword of the evening… forged of the flesh of burning stars it is, and tempered by the doom of a frozen city.” The tree-man rose from his seat, tearing the vines from his brittle, grey bones, and cried out in a scraped voice, “North, Jon Snow! You must go north, into the lands of the Others… for the instrument of their doom awaits your coming.” The tree-man seemed to collapse then, but strange, childlike creatures caught him as he fell, and quickly placed him back on this tangled throne.

“In Hardhome,” Bran said firmly. “‘Lightbringer’ awaits you in the city beyond the Wall.” The vision was fading now, and the bark of the tree seemed to close in and around his little brother. The smells began to fade too, and Nymeria whimpered as Bran’s voice was drowned out by the howling wind. “Goodbye, brother,” Bran called out. “I’ll be watching… I love you…” The image disappeared at last, and the tree was just a tree once more. Jon turned to Nymeria. Her gaze was still locked on the eyes of the Weirwood.

“Hardhome,” he whispered, his hot breath painting the air in front of him.

Suddenly, a searing pain entered the white wolf’s belly. There were footsteps and whispers all around them. _Men!_ Jon realised with horror. Nymeria was growling, and snapping at the shadows. Jon turned to face them as well, and felt the arrow-head grind against his bones. His sister burst off into the trees, but let out an awful yelp as one of the men caught her in the hide with a long steel claw. Another arrow whistled through the air, and wrenched Jon up against the Weirwood with a thump. Moaning, he rolled onto his back, and found himself staring up at the night sky. _Bran,_ he thought dizzily. _Where are you?_

The men were closing in around them now; dark figures approaching from every direction. It was over, Jon realised. Winter had beaten them, but at least he knew someone he loved was still alive; his pack… his family.

“Gods, look at the size of them,” a voice said. “That white one belonged to the bastard, Snow.”

“I can’t believe they were here,” another man added. “Just as Lady Melisandre foretold… Right where we hanged the Brotherhood on our march to Moat Cailin.”

“Aye, it’s a winter miracle. Now bind their limbs and jaws with chains, and throw them in the cart.”

“The grey one as well? She almost tore Garred’s throat out.”

“Aye, her grace has need of both of them… back at Winterfell.” The sound of the wind faded, until only his frantic heartbeats remained. A cloak of darkness folded over the white wolf, as his blood crept out before his eyes in a red tide. Everything went black.


	2. Jon rises from the Flames

**Jon rises from the Flames**

When Jon awoke, he found himself surrounded by darkness. Hard, flat stone pressed against his chest and paws, and he could make out a faint dripping somewhere in the distance. The air around him was stale and cold, but it was almost welcome compared to the harsh chill of the Wolfswood. As his wolf eyes adjusted to the dark, he found himself within the depths of man-caves. Narrow black rock encased him almost entirely, save for a single wall of metal teeth. He approached them, and pushed his snout through the bars. “Sister,” he whispered, but she did reply.

“You awake doggy?” another voice spoke. “Gods, you’re a big one.” Jon growled, and looked around quickly for its source. On the far side of the room were more black caves, just like his, each with their own set of teeth. Jon shook his wolf thoughts away, and strained to see the world through the eyes of a man. _Not caves,_ Jon scolded himself, _cells._ _I am in a dungeon._

“Over here, pup,” the voice called again. Jon pushed himself further through the bars, and glanced someone several cells up. It was a woman, a young woman, with short black hair, tangled over her pale brow. Her skin was rough and freshly bruised, though there was something wild and beautiful about her smile. “They put you in that cell yesterday. I thought you were dead, until I heard you growling in the night. I guess even direwolves can dream.”

Jon kept staring at her, not daring to move. “Me, I’ve been in this cell for… Well, I couldn’t say how long, since I can’t see the sky, but it could a fortnight. At least I needn’t talk to myself anymore. Any company’s welcome when you’re alone this long, even if it is a mangy beast. Still, you can’t be worse than the mutt’s Stannis calls knights.” She brushed her long fingers against the purple blotch on her face. “Courtesy of Godry Gooseslayer. I can’t tell if he hates women, or just Ironborn.” _Stannis,_ Jon thought. _I know that name._ _Stannis! Stannis! Stannis!_ they were shouting, as arrows soared overhead, and banners of a fiery stag galloped ice-clad trees.

“The red priestess tells me you’re really a boy, trapped in a wolf’s body. Perhaps if I kiss you, you’ll transform into a prince, and we can ride off into the sunset together.” She gave a mocking laugh. “Not that you’re like to find any sunlight in this frozen waste. Gods below! How could my father have ever hoped to hold onto this place once winter came? Well, that’s the Greyjoy’s for you… more courage than sense.”

Just then, memories began flowing back into Jon’s mind. He remembered the Weirwood with its hanging bodies, and his frightening vision of the Others. He remembered seeing his brother Bran in the trunk of the tree. _Seek the sword of the evening,_ he had told him. _In the city beyond the Wall… Hardhome…_ And then the men attacked him, and drove their cruel barbs into his flesh, and bound him with rope and iron. And after that it was all a blur. Where was he? A castle? The Wall?

“Who are you?” Jon barked. “Where is my sister?” He tried to speak her tongue, but all that came out were the growls of a wolf. Then Jon heard a whimper from the cell next to his.

“Looks like your girlfriend’s awake,” the young woman snickered. “I’ll have to fight her for you, to prove my love.”

“Little sister,” Jon called. “Are you hurt?” Jon’s own wounds seemed to have healed over, but Nymeria had been stuck with a spear.

“Brother,” she whispered. “My belly… It hurts…” Jon lunged at the rock wall, and began scratching at it furiously. It was no use though. He was in the halls of men now, and once his claws were chipped and bloody, he collapsed on the stone floor, panting with defeat. “It’s okay, little sister,” he yelped. “I’ll get you out of hear.”

Then Jon heard footsteps, and watched as a swaying light descended from the far right end of the dungeon. “What the fuck is all that noise!?” A gruff voice bellowed.

“The red queen’s pets are awake,” the young woman called back. “And my chamber pot needs washing.” The light faded away, and Jon heard the man cursing as he climbed back up the stairs. Nymeria was whimpering close by, but all Jon could do was a grind his teeth in fury, and plot how he would tear these men apart if she should die.

Soon, the swaying light returned, but this time many men came with it. They were all cloaked in suits of armour, and they held chains, knives, and straps of leather in their hands. The biggest one held a long bar of iron, with a large block at the end.

“Alight,” he said. “The grey one doesn’t look like she’ll do much damage, but this one has some mean bark on him. Garred, you be ready with that sack and chain.” He then positioned himself in front of Jon. A long, shiny sword hung by his waist, and at its tip sat the head of a wolf. Jon stuck out his snout and growled. “Orin, open the cell.” The metal teeth swung out, and Jon lunged at the tall one. The man stepped back, and heaved his bar forward. The metal block landed against Jon’s neck with a sickening crack, and everything became slow and blurry. The shadows converged on him, and he felt iron clasps bind his legs, and a cloth fell over his eyes, blinding him.

Next thing he knew, Jon was bouncing up and down. He thrashed and growled, but he was locked in place. He couldn’t see anything through the grey clothe, but he could hear the men all about him. One of them gave him a sharp jab. “Shut up you filthy mutt!” Jon fell unconscious again.

***

When the sack was finally lifted off him, Jon found that he was outside again. It was night, and for the first time in a long time, he saw stars above him. He glanced back and forth frantically, and saw that there were men all around him, hundreds of them, thousands even. And behind them, thick stone towers rose up to kiss the sky. Large bolts of cloth fluttered on the walls. Some bore Stannis’ fiery stag, while others showed the head of a wolf against a white field. _Stark,_ Jon remembered. _The wolves of the north. And stag… of the south._

Jon tried to move, and run away, but his legs were still bound with cold links. Then he saw his sister twitching beside him. Her paws were tied together with a large chain, and leather straps held her jaws tight. She lay upon a mound of sticks and straw, and tufts of dry hay. She turned to Jon and made a sad groan. Her eyes were so full of fear, just like the deer they had killed together. It broke Jon’s heart.

Jon looked out at the crowd of men, their faces stern and silent. Some were cloaked in armour, while others wore the skins of wolves and deer. And then Jon felt it, the warm tongues of flame, curling towards him through the cold night air. A red woman had emerged from the mob, and she was walking slowly towards him. Everything about her was alive with the taste of fire. Her clothes and hair flickered crimson in the wind, and a great warmth wafted off her skin like fresh blood upon on ice; it was almost as hot as the torch she held before her.

As she moved closer to the wolves, the men began to chant as one. _“LORD OF LIGHT, PROTECT US! LORD OF LIGHT, DEFEND US! LORD OF LIGHT, GUIDE US!”_ They were all standing now, with their swords and their spears pointed at the sky. _“FOR THE NIGHT IS DARK AND FULL OF TERRORS!”_

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” the red woman repeated alone. All was silent again, and the men lowered their steel in reverence. _“Oh R’hllor,”_ the red woman sung out. _“Hear our prayers, lord of light… Reach into your fiery heart, and grant this Son of Stark life once more.”_

Jon heard footsteps then, approaching him from behind. Two cowled men appeared in the corner of his eye. They were carrying a long, thick bundle of cloth. They placed it down gently on the tufts of straw beside Jon, and began to unwrap it slowly. Inside the rug was a man with dark brown hair and a short-cropped beard. He was cloaked and hooded in black furs, stained with red marks across the chest. The man’s eyes were closed, and his skin seemed as pale as a corpse.

And then Jon realised whose face he was looking at, and he gasped with horror. Jon was looking at himself, or rather, the man he been in his first life, before he took his wolf form. It felt so long ago, yet the knife-marks in his chest seemed to burn hot and fresh, as if they had just been made. Jon snapped and growled at the men, desperate to get free. He turned to Nymeria, and saw that she had also seen the body, and was afraid. Jon howled as loudly as he could, and his sister joined him, but the chains would not budge, and the men would not flee, and the corpse still lay there, staring at them in silent remorse.

The two cowled men had disappeared into the crowd. All of the men seemed to have fallen back several paces. All except the red woman, who moved even closer to Jon. Her eyes danced, like candles in a wild wind. The light of her torch seemed to grow, and shift shape, and even change colour. As Jon gazed into its bright heat, he seemed to see himself, cowering under cuffs of dry grass.

“Oh divine one,” the woman called out above the howls. “Keeper of light and flame, we beseech you from our humble hearts. Draw the soul of a warrior from this savage beast, and return it to its rightful vessel.” Jon did not understand. What was this red witch doing? “We offer you these mighty direwolves in sacrifice… for the glory of your power and your guidance.”

“No!” Jon roared, thrashing against his chains like a wounded deer. “Don’t do it! Please, stop this madness!” The tufts of branch and hay crunched beneath his heaving chest.

“It’s alright, brother…” Nymeria whispered. “Do not be afraid… You are a wolf, they are men… This is the way of things…” Jon stared into his sisters eyes, and felt a deep calm wash over him. His restraints were no longer cold and hard, but warm and familiar, like his mother’s embrace… so many years ago. The noise and fury melted away, and then there were just two direwolves, together at the end. Jon wanted to cry, but he knew he had to be strong.

In the distance, he heard the chanting again— _“…Lord of light, protect us! …Lord of light, defend us! …Lord of light, guide us!”—_ and he saw the red woman kneel, and press her fiery barb into the tufts of straw. A white, searing flash consumed Jon’s senses. Flames roared all around him, and lashed at his flesh. He howled again; a long, sorrowful song that spoke of all he had lost. The fire consumed his pain, and coiled itself around the white wolf. He could feel his fur burning, and his flesh blistering, and his innards roasting, and his vision fading…

“Fire!” a man’s voice roared, and a hundred shards of pain slid into the wolf’s hide. “Fire!” More shards, but less pain. The world seemed to melt and shift, and slow to a crawl… “Fiiii…irrr… rreee…” And then Jon slipped out of his iron clasps, and out of his wolf skin, and soared into a white hot abyss.

 

Jon was underwater now, and he could taste salt and smoke. When he gazed up, he saw the shadows of enormous warships, colliding in a plume of yellow and red, and the bodies of a hundred men were cast into the waves, and as they thrashed about, cold, dead tentacles coiled around them and dragged them into the darkness. They tried to scream, but their lungs were filled with seawater, and they died with horror in their eyes.

And then Jon was somewhere else, a thousand leagues from the ocean. He gazed out and saw a pale girl, with flowing silver hair. She sat upon a monstrous throne, with huge bat-like winds, and a long serpent tale. And as the monster roared, a river of flame erupted from its barbed jaws, and poured out across a sea of red grass. A thousand horses swayed and shivered below the silver goddess, and as the fire consumed them, they fell to their knees, and bound their strength to hers.

And then Jon was far above the earth, and his spirit was burning with ice and fire; a falling star that smashed against the frozen shore, and erupted in a flower of white death. And then the flower sunk and sunk and sunk, deep into the earth, and its form twisted and melted, and then hardened and glistened and sharpened and glowed. Jon saw a white sword, and as it sliced through the air, the wind screamed like a dying beast. The sound was so great and so terrible that it made his skin burn.

 

Jon stumbled out of the burning pyre, growling and weeping, and collapsed into the dirt with a wet thump. He gazed through his man-eyes, and saw the bodies of two direwolves roasting in an enormous orange flame. Their howling was ceased, and their eyes had grown pale and empty. _No,_ Jon thought, tears flowing down his cheeks. _No, don’t leave me Ghost. Don’t go Nymeria. I need you. You are my pack._ And Jon realised he was a man once more, taller than any wolf, with long arms and legs, and no fur to guard him from the bitter cold. His black cloak had crumbled in flames, and Jon was left naked and bleeding. The fire had not burned him, but his old wounds had opened up, and were leaking red into the dirt.

And then the memories of his first life came rushing back into him all at once, and he vomited. The men of Stannis Baratheon were still chanting their awful prayer to the Red God, and the fire was still burning large. Jon’s wolves were dead now; two black husks of meat and bone, yet cruelly, he still lived. Lady Melisandre stood over him with her flaming torch, singing her evil song to R’hllor. He was Jon Snow, a man of the Night’s Watch. He wasn’t a wolf, and yet that made it no easier to watch.

Jon staggered to his feet at last. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It had been so long since he had fashioned words from his tongue. “No-oh,” he spluttered at last. “Out… puttit o-ut!” The red priestess turned back to the crowd, and cast her eyes up to the castle balcony, where a caped man stood, stern and silent. He nodded slowly, the orange flames glistening in his iron crown. Several men rushed forward with buckets in hand, and cast gushes of water onto the pyre. The flames sizzled and wavered, and after a few minutes, relented in a great puff of ash and smoke. Jon staggered onto the scorching coals, and collapsed against his two burnt direwolves. He held them tightly, and wept. “No,” he whimpered. “How could you?”

“Jon Snow,” Melisandre called out. “You died a bastard of the Wall. Rise now, as a warrior of light and flame.” The last few flecks of ember died down, and the soldiers ceased their praying. Jon raised his head and stared at the men. Their faces seemed almost frightened now, save for King Stannis, who stood upon the platform, and whose face revealed nothing. Lady Melisandre’s curved figure, towered over the black expense of ash and burnt wood. Her red gown was covered in soot, and yet she looked more beautiful than ever. Jon drew himself to his feet. It was strange to be standing on two legs again. He stood taller than Ghost ever had, and yet he felt so much smaller. Jon was completely naked, and yet he was cloaked in a thick layer of mud and ash.

“Tell me, Lord Snow,” Melisandre said. “What did the Lord of Light show you in his flames?” Jon stared at her, long and hard. The castle yard had grown deathly silent now. Finally, he spat a hunk of black drool onto the ground, and turned his back to her. He knelt beside the two dead direwolves, placed a muscled arm over each, and with a strength he’d never had before, lifted them off the ground, and began to walk away.

“Lord Snow,” a man’s voice called. It was Stannis Baratheon, perched up on his father’s balcony. “Where are you going?”

Jon stood for a while, forming the words in his mind. At last he replied, “To bury… my pack… _your grace_ ,” he added in acid tones. Jon kept walking, and Lady Melisandre and her followers continued their twisted chants.

Jon felt rage and grief coursing through him all at once. As he trudged beneath the shadow of the inner wall, it dawned on him that was back in Winterfell. It seemed Stannis had taken the castle from Lord Bolton after all, and yet there was no victory to savour. A year ago, the prospect of returning home might have filled him with joy, but now it tasted of bitter ash. For what had changed? His brothers had betrayed him at the Wall, and left him for dead. And everyone he had ever loved or cared for were now gone. Winter had swallowed up the world, and left an empty, soulless abyss in its wake.

Jon made his way to rear of the castle stables, where they had buried Lady, his sister’s direwolf, all those years ago. He placed Ghost and Nymeria gently on the ground, pulled a shovel from the stalls, and began to dig angrily.

As he worked, the chanting faded, and Stannis’ soldiers seemed to retire for the night. From where the moon sat, Jon reckoned that it was almost midnight. More and more memories flowed back into him. _I am Jon Snow… a Son of Winterfell… and a man of the Night’s Watch._ His wolf thoughts seemed to melt away like the remnants of a fading dream. Perhaps he had always been a man, and the fur had only ever been a coat to last the cold. Ghost had kept him alive these past months; he’d kept him company, and taught him to survive in the wild, and even lead him back to his sister, Nymeria. Ghost had done all this, and his reward was to be burned alive, frightened and confused. He was Jon’s last friend in the world, the last of his pack, and now he was gone. Perhaps he was a man again, but the wolf blood had stayed with him, hot and angry, and eager for flesh. A part of Ghost still dwelled with Jon.

***

By the time Lady Melisandre found him behind the stables, Jon had dug a hole that could have housed five direwolves. “You are angry, Jon Snow,” she said gently. “I can see it in your eyes, and feel it in your words.” When he did not look at her, she moved closer. Jon could feel the heat of her skin. “Do you _hate_ me Jon Snow?”

He threw the shovel aside. “I _loved_ the ones you killed,” he growled, looking her dead in the eyes.

“I am sorry for your wolf’s passing, Jon Snow. He was a loyal beast, and he loved you well. But had I waited any longer to perform the ceremony, you would have been lost to us. Your spirit and Ghost’s were too intertwined. Only one of you could have been saved. Had Ghost lived, Jon Snow would have melted away forever… Only death can pay for life.”

 _I wasn’t worth one of Ghost,_ he thought bitterly. Jon lifted the wolf gently, and placed him into the hole. “And Nymeria…?” he whispered.

“The she-wolf would have died regardless. Her wounds went too deep.”

“Wounds your men made,” he shot back, placing his wolf sister into the grave next to Ghost. Jon picked up the shovel again, and set to burying the two beasts. “They were all I had left,” he said, tears rolling down his mud-soaked face. “The last of my pack…”

“That is not true, Lord Snow. Your sister Arya lives. She misses you terribly, and will be happy to know that you are alive.”

Jon stopped suddenly and looked up at Melisandre. “Arya,” he repeated. _Could it be true? She told me to meet her at the Walk…_ Jon suddenly recalled, but surely that was only one of his wolf dreams. “She’s alive… truly?”

Lady Melisandre nodded. “While you were prowling the Wolfswood these past months, your sister has been cloaking herself in glory. It was she who asked me to escort your body home, to be buried in the crypts beneath Winterfell.” He tried to picture Arya in his mind; her tangled hair, her wild smile, her hands always stained with mud. _Little sister,_ he would tease, and muss up her hair. How sweet it would to see her again, and hug her tightly.

The red priestess was holding a large, black cloak in one arm. She pressed it against Jon’s bare chest. “You must put on some clothes, Jon Snow. You will freeze otherwise. Even my powers tremor before the chill of these Northern winds.” Jon took the cloak slowly. It was black, and lined with fur, like the one he’d been wearing the day he died, like the one that had burnt up in the flames. There were no blood-stains on this one. Suddenly Jon realised just how cold it was, and he threw the furs over his back, and hugged them to his chest.

“Thank you,” he said at last. She nodded, and for once her smile seemed sincere. Jon finished burying his two friends, as Lady Melisandre prayed in silence. _I’m not dead…_ Nymeria had told him once. _You’re not dead… The pack survives…_ For the first time in a long time, Jon’s heart felt warm again, and he remembered that he was not a wolf, but a man.


	3. Jon and Stannis

**Jon and Stannis**

_Night gathers, and now my watch begins… it shall not end until my death…_ But death _had_ found Jon Snow, beneath the gates of Castle Black, the day he’d mustered an army of wildlings and sworn brothers, to march on Ramsay Snow. Bowen Marsh and his men had stopped him in the training yard, and drove their cold blades into his chest and neck. “For the watch,” they had chanted, with tears in their eyes. Jon could still remember how the knives felt inside him, sharp and bitter. The world had darkened and vanished then, and he’d found himself back in his chambers, staring through the eyes of a wolf. _Ghost’s eyes,_ he thought with sadness. He had gone half mad with rage and grief, howling at the top of his lungs, and savaging the door with his claws.

“Door! Door! Door!” Mormont’s raven had screamed, until at last, it swung open amidst a wave of fire and noise. The red woman had entered, her eyes frantic, with the sound of steel and screams echoing from behind her. “They are coming for you!” she had cried. “Follow me Jon Snow. I will open the castle gates for you. Quickly now, while they are fighting with the savages.” The hours that followed that were all a blur now. He remembered following Melisandre down flights of stony steps on all fours, and hearing the carnage swell all around him. He remembered running through the snow as fast he could, until his blood burned like acid beneath his flesh, and when he looked back, he saw the black keep, bleeding smoke into the heavens, and he kept running, and running, and running, until the screaming stopped…

But that had been a lifetime ago. Now Jon sat alone, in the quiet dark of his father’s study, hunched over a scarred wooden desk, with a blank piece of parchment at its centre. He touched the wound where Bowen Marsh had stabbed him, and recoiled in pain. _All these months later and it still stings._ His body had been returned to him, yes, but at what cost? His faithful wolf Ghost lay blackened beneath the earth, and beside him rested Nymeria, his sister’s wolf.

 _Gods below,_ he realised. _How am I going to break the news to Arya?_ The whole purpose of his march south had been to rescue his little sister from that monster Ramsay Snow. But now _she_ was at the Wall, while he rested in Winterfell like a wounded beast. The irony was not lost him. And from all accounts, Arya was not the kind of girl who needed rescuing at all. Gods how he wished to see her again. He wondered how much she had changed from the grubby-faced girl he had known. It had been almost four years since they’d last been together, the day he had given her Needle, before departing for the Wall. She’d be almost a woman grown by now. _Will I even recognise her?_ Sansa and her friends used to call her “Arya Horseface” in the yard, but Mikken had sworn she was the spitting image of Jon’s aunt. Lyanna Stark had died before Jon was even born, but everyone who knew her marvelled at her wild beauty. Jon would have liked an aunt growing up. Lady Stark had offered little in the way of motherly advice.

Jon stared at the blank slip of paper before him. The feather in his hand had grown hard with ink, as he pondered what to write to his sister. Jon’s speech and memory had returned to him easily enough, but the writing was something else entirely. He could form the words in his mind, but when he put pen to paper, the letters would not come. Jon dipped his feather in the ink pot, pressed it against the paper, and began to write.

 _Dear Little Sister,_ he began. _I hope this letter finds you well... It seems father was right all along… winter has come, and yet the news of your survival fills me with warmth…_ Jon lifted his pen, and stared at the wet ink, glistening in the candlelight. The words were gibberish, closer to runes than letters. Jon growled in frustration, and cast the paper to the ground. Perhaps he would need to have Stannis’ maester assist him. Following the death of Bowen Marsh, most of the King’s household guard had made the trek from Castle Black to Winterfell. Most, but not all.

Jon stood up, and began pacing back and forth across the grey floorboards. Ghost’s body had died in Melisandre’s flames, but his spirit still dwelt within Jon, and the wolf grew restless and hungry with each passing day. The _Wolfsblood_ , Jon had come to know it as; sometimes it was a wild energy that wanted to race across a windswept field, while other times it lusted for blood and the thrill of the hunt. At first it scared Jon, but he had grown to like it, and control it. It warmed him to know that Ghost was still alive, in some form at least. He wondered if Arya felt the same sensation, up in Castle Black. He wondered how she would react, when she found out that he was still alive.

It had been four days since Jon’s fiery rebirth, and he had spent most of that time inside this very room. He’d spoken with none of Stannis’ men, who all seemed frightened by his presence. And the only words he’d had with the King had been their bitter exchange after the burning of the direwolves. Only Lady Melisandre had come to visit him, and all that came out of her mouth were questions of what Jon had seen in the flames. He’d told her of the drowning men, of the silver-haired queen, of the falling star, in as much detail as he could remember. But everything before that was a grey haze. He could recall certain thoughts and senses from his time in Ghost’s skin—hunger mostly—but his memories as a wolf were largely dissolved; like a waking dream that would fade the more you tried to picture it.

When Jon tried to ask her of Arya and the Wall, or of the Battle of Winterfell, Melisandre’s only reply had been, “Rest now, Jon Snow. You are weaker than you know. Let your body heal and your mind reflect. The answers will come… in time.” Jon had obeyed, for as long as he was able. He had slept, and gathered his thoughts, and ate the meals that Melisandre’s squire brought for him. It was good have warm, clean food inside him again. But he was starting to grow restless. There was only so long a wolf could be caged up.

As his reading candle dwindled, Jon readied himself for bed. He was unlacing his boots, when there was a shy knock at the door. Jon opened it to find Melisandre’s quire standing in the walkway, shivering beneath a huge grey coat. Devan was a timid young boy, and the son of Davos Seaworth, the King’s late Hand. He shuffled back several steps as Jon emerged from his darkened chambers.

“A little late for supper, isn’t it Devan?” Jon said, trying to sound pleasant, and not the undead wolf-man most of Stannis’ men took him for.

“Lo-Lord Snow,” the boy stuttered amidst the howling winds. “His gr-grace has requested y-your attendance in the g-great hall.”

“Of course,” Jon replied, throwing a black cloak over his shoulders, and hugging the furs to his chest.

He followed Devan along the walkways above Winterfell’s courtyard. Jon had spent most of his life within these walls, and they held many fond memories, yet the castle before him now seemed almost unrecognisable. The walls were burnt and crumbling, with beams of wood holding much of the stone in place. The yard stood empty, beneath a moving veil of smog. Snowflakes fell like cinders upon the ruined keep, forming a milky layer of frost that coated the cracked walls and scorched spires. Baratheon guards stood beside the gates and tower doors, caked in frost, and clutching their spears tightly, lest they fall asleep at their post. And above them hung the fiery stags of King Stannis, flickering like a dozen bloodshot candles.

Winterfell felt closer to a graveyard than a fortress, and yet, as Jon peered out over the jagged ramparts, he saw a sea of tents, curling out into the grey horizon. The camps stretched out in every direction, and between the pavilions wandered thousands of soldiers, knights and armoured steads, settling down for the night. Watchtowers, carriages and siege engines were silhouetted by the moon’s glow, and the sigils of half a hundred southron and northern lords fluttered in the icy winds.

“Gods be good,” Jon thought aloud. “Stannis has been busy these past months. There must be ten-thousand men surrounding Winterfell.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” Devan shivered. “Closer to f-fifteen in fact”

Jon glimpsed the banners of proud mermen and shackled giants; iron gauntlets and crowned axes; blooming foxes and white owls; black bears, green turtles, brown seahorses, soldier pines, and white lances; and wolves, wolves, wolves, wolves. Everywhere swelled the grey direwolf of House Stark, taller and larger and more splendid than all the other sigils combined. Jon could not help but smile as he watched the banners of his father and brother sail against the Northern sky.

 _The pride of Winterfell,_ Jon thought. _Winter has come, and still these men of the North refuse to forget their ancient allegiance._ Stannis may have claimed lordship over these lands, but it was to House Stark whom the North pledged their love and loyalty, and as Jon Snow walked along the parapets in view of the camps, he began to hear a hundred voices braid together. _They see me,_ Jon realised. _They know who I am. The blood of the direwolf lives… and the North remembers._

Jon followed Devan down several flights of stairs, as they moved further and further towards the great hall. He found himself struggling to keep up with the young squire.

“I was sorry to hear of your lord father’s passing,” Jon said, moving swiftly to the boy’s side. “I never had the pleasure of meeting Ser Davos, but by all accounts he was brave knight and true.”

“Thank you, my lord. You are kind to say. My father gave his life for King Stannis… and I am honoured to do the same. Like you, Lord Snow, I pray we shall all be reborn in the Light of R’hllor.” It was not the answer Jon had expected, and then again, everyone dealt with grief in their own way.

At last they reached Winterfell’s inner keep. The large Weirwood doors were guarded by four armoured knights, two on each side. Wooden trestle tables had been arranged around the square, presumably for Stannis’ personal guards to break their fast each morning. The knights nodded as Jon and Devan approached, and pulled open the heavy doors to let them through.

Jon entered the great hall of Winterfell, and felt a wave of heat rush against him. The room was almost empty, and yet all six hearths were ablaze. At the far end of the hall sat Stannis Baratheon, with an iron crown atop his balding head. His face was stern and gaunt, with a black and silver beard wrapped around his hardened jaw. Beside him stood Ser Godry Farring, the proud southron knight who had styled himself “Giantslayer”, ever since Stannis’ victory in the Haunted Forest. Both men looked up as Jon Snow’s footsteps echoed against the stone tiles.

“Ah,” Stannis grunted, shifting in his chair. “The bastard reborn.” _It seems nothing will clean me of that title,_ Jon mused. “I trust you are well rested after your little dalliance in the woods.”

Jon halted several feet from the throne of Winterfell, where the King stood and his knight leered. “Well enough, your grace,” he replied coolly. There was a pause then, and Jon felt as though he was expected to kneel, but didn’t.

“So the wolf boy _lives_ ,” Ser Godry said, as he folded a piece of parchment and stuffed it in his coat pocket. “How’s your head, boy?” He gave Jon a twisted smile. “I suppose your wolf took the brunt of that blow.” Jon flexed his sword hand.

“That will be all, Ser Godry,” Stannis said gruffly. “Lord Snow and I have matters to discuss.”

His smile vanished. “Of course, your grace,” the large knight said, pulling on a pair of padded gloves. “I shall take my leave.” As Godry bowed, and started back towards the hall’s entrance, Jon noticed the longsword swaying from his hip. It had a stained leather grip, and at its pommel was the snarling head of a wolf, with garnets for eyes.

“Longclaw,” Jon breathed, his blood rising.

“What?” Ser Godry shot back.

“Nothing,” he replied coldly. _I’ll deal with you later, Giantslayer._ The knight gave Jon a poisonous look, before exiting the hall.

“You too, Devan,” Stannis called to the back of the room. Jon turned to see the squire bow low and take his leave. The King waited until the wooden doors had slammed shut before addressing Jon.

“I meant to treat with you sooner, Lord Snow, but Lady Melisandre forbade it. She said you needed time to heal, and were likely still… _vexed,_ by the death of your wolves.”

Jon bristled, but decided to bury his ire beneath courtesy. “I owe Lady Melisandre quite a bit it seems. It was she who helped me escape during the mutiny.”

“Indeed,” Stannis replied, taking a sip of wine. “She tells me she _saw you_ in her flames… ‘a wounded boy, bound in the flesh of a wolf’…or was it the other way around?” The King’s face was a vacant stare now, and Jon felt himself becoming uncomfortable. _What does he want me to say?_ “She knew where you’d be, the night my men captured you and dragged you back to Winterfell… ‘Beneath the Weirwood tree,’ she said, where I’d hanged Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood, on my march to Moat Cailin…” A vision of rotting corpses flashed before Jon’s eyes; they were swaying like wind chimes, and their faces were open in horror. Stannis took another sip, and placed the cup on the tile beside his throne. “She tells me you’ve spent these past months prowling the winter wastes, and feeding off dead things in the Wolfswood. Should I be concerned, Lord Commander?”

Jon tried to loosen the knot in his throat. “It is true, your grace, though my memory of that time is all but gone.”

“What _do_ you remember?” Stannis asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Little and less, your grace. I remember being stabbed by my Sworn Brothers, and escaping Castle Black on all fours. I remember finding Nymeria, my sister’s wolf, in the midst of a fierce ice storm.” Jon paused for a moment. “And I remember being beaten and chained up by your soldiers. The rest, I fear, is a grey blur of hunger, cold and dread.”

Stannis leaned back in his seat then. “Perhaps my men _were_ a little rough. Though, had they been any softer, you might have torn their throats out, and escaped into the night.” _I still might,_ Jon mused darkly. “I _was_ sorry your wolves had to die, but Lady Melisandre promised me that it was either their lives or yours.” Stannis stroked the length of his beard, his expression softening. “I rather liked the white one. He was as silent as he was loyal. My bannermen could have learned a thing or two.” _Even in victory he grows sour._

“I _glimpsed_ your ‘bannermen’ as I passed along the castle walls. It seems as if every Northman with a sword has rallied to your cause.” That answer seemed to ease the King’s mood somewhat.

“Aye,” he replied, with the faintest suggestion of a smile. “A pretty sight indeed. Though it is to you and your sister they rally to. Word of Arya Stark’s deeds have spread to every corner of the North. ‘House Stark has returned from the dead,’ they say, ‘the blood of the direwolf lives’ …and who am I to dissuade them? The Dreafort lies smouldering in the snow, and House Bolton rots alongside it.” The King leaned forward now, his voice low and deliberate. “Your sister has delivered me the North, Lord Snow. That’s one half of my kingdom, along with twelve-thousand men-at-arms and two-thousand cavalry. And that’s on top of the four-thousand I marched from Deepwood Motte to Winterfell. Once she has returned from the Wall, I will grant her lordship of Winterfell.” He paused then, as if to make sure Jon had absorbed his words. “I also mean to name her my Warden of the North.”

“Arya,” Jon spluttered. “Named ‘Warden of the North’? But she’s… just a girl.”

A slow smile unfurled across the King’s face. “This _girl_ has mustered an army of wildlings in the Gift. She retook Castle Black and put Bowen Marsh and all of his followers to the sword. This _girl_ sacked the mighty Dreadfort, and fed Ramsay Snow to a pack of wolves.” The King gave a shrug then, and leaned back in his seat. “Or so the tales proclaim. In any event, she is the last Stark in Westeros who still draws breath, and that’s good enough for me.”

Jon’s eyes were swimming. “Gods beneath,” he uttered.

“Take a seat, Lord Snow,” Stannis chuckled. “There’s no point standing on ceremony at this hour.”

Jon turned and spotted a wooden chair leaning against the wall between two folded trestles. He fetched it hastily, and as he returned, Stannis handed him a cup of red wine. “Oh, no your grace. Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

“Drink, Jon Snow. Your King commands it.” As Stannis sat back down, Jon took a sip, and felt the sweet liquid burn its way down his throat.

 _Little Arya Underfoot,_ he thought. _Champion of the North_. It seemed as if he had strayed into a dream. Jon could not help but smile. He took another mouthful, and savoured the rich flavour.

“Well,” Stannis said at last. “No doubt you have questions, Lord Snow. Ask them now, for you will not get another chance.”

Jon rubbed his forehead. His mind was racing. In his father’s study, Jon’s thoughts had nourished a hundred questions, yet now they seemed to flutter from his mind like frightened ravens. “So much has changed since I fled Castle Black,” he uttered. “How in seven hells did you seize Winterfell from Roose Bolton? The last I’d heard, you had taken Deepwood Motte, and were marching through the Wolfswood.

“Aye,” Stannis replied. “Deepwood was a blessing. It delivered me the loyalty of House Glover, along with valuable Ironborn hostages. But more importantly it put the name of ‘Stannis Baratheon’ on the lips of every nobleman in the North. Any notions of triumph, however, were quickly washed away by the march south. Our passage through the Wolfswood was wracked by vicious ice storms. When the food stores ran low, the men were forced to eat their fallen horses. Some even turned on each other. We were lost, starving, and barely strong enough to walk, let alone besiege a castle. Eventually we stumbled upon some nameless village a few leagues south of Winterfell. Lord Bolton had already taken and garrisoned the castle weeks prior, and his scouts had been tracking our approach.”

“A grim prospect,” Jon inferred. “Though it clearly had a happy ending for you and your men.”

“We were outnumbered, and nearly broken by the march, but Roose made a grievous error. The victory was his for the taking. He needed only wait, let us starve and freeze to death outside his walls, but instead, he rode out to meet us in the field. You see, Lord Snow, Winterfell was overflowing with soldiers and bannermen, but unlike my men, their fealty to Lord Bolton has held by a thread, and their loyalty to each other was non-existent. In an attempt to rid the castle of its warring parties, Lord Bolton deployed a cavalry of Frey and Manderly troops to fall on us at night. But by then, I held the village, which meant now they were the besiegers.” The King drained the last of his cup, and refilled it from the cask at his feet.

“Numbers matter, Lord Snow, as does discipline, and the morale of your men. But more important than all that is the terrain of the fight; where you are placed on the battlefield and how you use it to your advantage. If the field is narrow and the high ground held, then ten men have a fighting chance against a thousand. I held that village and I meant to make it my own. Every rock, tree and clump of dirt was fashioned in our favour. I had lines of trenches dug around the outside of the village, and across them I laid branches and rotten planks of wood. Within an hour the falling snow had made the moat invisible to our enemy’s eyes and their horse’s hooves. I had a massive pyre built half a league west of the village and set ablaze, to draw Bolton’s eye, and positioned all of my mounted troops in a small basin to the east, in order to rout the enemy. Finally, I gathered my men-at-arms into the stone keep at the centre of the village, and filled the outer huts with dry straw and lantern oil, so that my archers could set them alight in the heat of battle. In the end, though, it was all for naught.” The King gave a wry laugh.

“Our enemy approached us from two angles; one lead by the merman of Manderly, the other followed the twin towers of Frey. They merged with one another a mile north of our position… but then their march seemed to halt and fracture. The men had turned to face one another, while the riders rode back and forth across the snow in frantic coils. From where we stood, atop the stone keep, Bolton’s host seemed to swell and disperse and come together again and again and again. Angry shouts wafted through the air, and mingled with the clash of steel. By now their banners had fallen to the ground and were consumed by the swell of battle. My cavalry were preparing their attack, but I signalled them to halt. Eventually, the fighting seemed to die down. Many bodies littered the snow, but hundreds more were still standing. Their lines were reformed, and as they continued their march towards us, I saw the merman standard raised up to the sky in amity.

“The leader of the host, Ser Marlon, informed me that his lord and father, Wyman Manderly had ordered his men to slay the Frey’s once they had marched beyond the gaze of Winterfell, and to offer the fealty of White Harbor to me. Ser Marlon laid his sword at my feet… but instead of taking it from him, I drew Lightbringer and placed it in his hands. ‘Return to Winterfell,’ I said. ‘Tell lord Bolton that I am dead and defeated, and present him this sword as proof. Then, when everyone is fast asleep, content in their triumph, open the gates of Winterfell to me and my men… We will do the rest.’ The old knight nodded, and swore before the heart tree that the gates would be open upon our arrival.”

“The pink letter,” Jon blurted out, spilling some of his wine. Stannis looked up, startled. “At the Wall, the day Marsh attacked me, I received a letter from Ramsay Snow, declaring that you were slain, and swearing to cut out my heart if Arya wasn’t returned to him.”

Stannis nodded. “By then, the bastard was on his way back to the Dreadfort, with Mance Rayder as prisoner. Likely, he presumed I _was_ dead after seeing Ser Marlon place Lightbringer at his father’s feet. The plan seemed sound enough, and would cost far fewer lives than a protracted siege, but Roose proved more discerning than I’d have hoped. He’d seen through our little ruse, and had ordered Lord Manderly hanged for treason. But by then, the Tallharts, the Ryswells, and the Dustins had all turned against Bolton as well, and a skirmish erupted inside Winterfell. Lord Manderly was killed in the carnage, but the Boltons and Freys were overwhelmed, and eventually forced to flee the castle. Roose escaped to the Neck, while his Frey bannermen fled the North altogether, and returned to the Green Fork, to bury their liege lord, and squabble over his ruined keep.”

“The Twins were destroyed?” Jon said, surprised.

“Aye. It was sacked by outlaws from the Trident. I’m told by the crannogmen that Lord Walder Frey was dragged from his bed in the middle of the night, and forced to watch his entire castle put the torch… before being hanged from the bridge by his own entrails.”

 _It must have been a pretty sight,_ Jon thought darkly, remembering the day Maester Aemon had delivered him news of the Red Wedding. “So you won the Battle of Winterfell without losing a single man?”

“Not to combat, but hundreds died of frostbite and hunger. When my host finally arrived at the castle, we found the gates were indeed open to us, but three-thousand armoured troops were lined up in front of it. When we spied their ranks through the winter fog, I feared the worst; I feared my Kingship would die there and then. But when they saw us, the soldiers bowed their heads, and knelt in the snow. It was not the flayed man of Bolton that was raised above Winterfell, but the grey wolf of Stark. Lord’s Ryswell and Locke rode forth from the gates, along with Lady Dustin, and old knights from Torrhen’s Square, Cerwyn and White Harbour. When they reached us, they knelt as well. Mors Umber slid from his horse beside me, and joined them in the snow. Beneath the flicker of torchlight, and the waning winter moon, they swore, by the Old Gods and the New, that they were Stark men, and would denounce all fealties to this false lord Bolton, and his boy king, Tommen Lannister.

“Winterfell was mine, along with half a dozen Northern lords. Roose Bolton’s forces were smashed, and his kingdom was crumbling. Soon, word reached my ears that the Dreadfort itself had been sacked, and Ramsay Snow found butchered by his own bride… ‘Arya Wolfspawn’ men were calling her now, waging a bloody trail of vengeance against the enemies of her house. I was certain she would make next for Winterfell, but instead she rode north, accompanied by her monstrous grey wolf, and your beloved Mance Rayder, who seems to outwit the Stranger at every turn. Some of my own knights accosted them along the Kingsroad, as they were fleeing the Night’s Watch mutiny. Only one of them made it to Winterfell alive.”

Stannis leaned forward to refill Jon’s cup, before doing the same with his own. Jon was starting to sweat now, as the wine and warmth crept into his head. “The truth, Lord Snow,” he sighed, “is that the Bolton’s never had your sister in their clutches. The girl Ramsay married was an imposter, just another slice of treachery cooked up by the Lannister’s. But now the true Arya Stark had returned to the North, and I meant to bring her to my side. I mustered a host of ten-thousand to retake Moat Cailin, and end Lord Bolton’s reign once and for all. I also deployed ships along the western coast, to throw the last of the Ironborn dregs back into the sea.

“When I arrived at Moat Cailin I found that it was already under siege by Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch. While his crannogmen pummelled Bolton with rocks and poisoned arrows from the south, my men smashed through the northern gate, and stormed the fortress with fire and steel. Moat Cailin was taken within a day, and Roose placed in a dungeon, alongside his defeated captains. The Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point were also reclaimed, and raven’s soon arrived from Ser Denys Mallister proclaiming Bowen Marsh overthrown and the Night’s Watch restored. I sent my fastest knights to Castle Black, to treat with Arya Stark, and she pledged me her fealty, and the allegiance of the North… on one condition.”

“Which was?” Jon inquired nervously. He knew that Stannis Baratheon was not the kind of man to bend to the whims of a young girl, but surprisingly, the King seemed amused.

“She asked that I kill Roose Bolton with my own sword, and place his head on a pike… for all the southern kingdoms to see. ‘Arya Stark sends her regards’ was the message she gave my knights, and when I whispered it in Lord Bolton’s ear, he suddenly become very afraid, and then he let out a long, frenzied laugh that did not end until his head landed in the mud with a splash. He still wears that same twisted expression, peering down from the turrets of Moat Cailin. His captains swore to me that it was the only time they’d ever seen their lord smile, let alone laugh.”

Jon was shaking his head, not sure whether to be amused or horrified. _“Jamie Lannister sends his regards…”_ he whispered into his cup.

“What’s that?” Stannis probed.

“Those were the words Lord Bolton left my brother with… before sliding a sword through his heart.” _The North Remembers._ Jon’s eyes rose to meet the King’s. “Well, Bolton made his choice. He sided with the Lannisters. Now it seems my sister has sided with you. I pray it leads her to a happier ending.”

“And whose side have you chosen, Jon Snow?” Stannis delved, fire reflecting in his cold blue eyes.

Jon’s reply was instinctual. “The Night’s Watch does not take sides, your grace. We are sworn to take no part—”

“—in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms,” Stannis finished irritably. “Yes, Lord Snow, you needn’t prate your words at me. I’ve heard them enough times to recite them back to you. I also know your vows _were_ fulfilled, the day Bowen Marsh stuck a dagger in your chest. Death has ended whatever holy pledge you made to the Night’s Watch, and believing that you would stay dead, your Sworn Brothers have voted Ser Denys Mallister to be their new Lord Commander.” Jon gave a heavy sigh. He’d feared as much. “Whatever you decide, Lord Snow, it is no longer of consequence to my cause. I _have_ my Stark of Winterfell, and all the strength of the North at my back. Fifteen-thousand soldiers surround this castle, and another twenty-thousand await my pleasure in the Neck. I have ships at Torrhen’s Square and East-Watch, coin from the Iron Bank, and sellswords being mustered in Braavos as we speak. With the southern kingdoms falling into chaos and butchery,” the King declared proudly. “I will soon be ready to reclaim my throne.”

“’East Watch’,” Jon repeated quietly. “Your grace,” he said, looking with a jolt. “Has there been any word from Cotter Pyke?! From Hardhome?! I was planning a rescue party—”

“No,” Stannis replied gruffly. “I’m afraid there’s been neither sight nor sound of your doomed expedition to Hardhome. Cotter Pyke and his men are likely as dead as the wildlings they were sent to save.”

A feeling of immense guilt washed over Jon. _Perhaps I was never meant to be Lord Commander. Ser Mallister will do the job better than I ever could._ A boldness came over him then, perhaps it was the wolfsblood in his veins. “Your grace, how many men have died for that god-forsaken throne? How much blood and tears have been spilt, I wonder. A hundred battles fought, castles destroyed, entire houses extinguished… and meanwhile, our true enemy is at the gates. ”

Stannis leaned back in his chair, and pressed his palms against his face. When his hands fell away, Jon could see the exhaustion in the King’s eyes. “White Walkers and Wildlings,” he said with a weary smile. “Skin-changers and shadowbinding. I tell you Snow, war was simpler when I was young. My Queen tells me that the old magic is returning to the world.”

Jon was confused. “Your _queen_?” He repeated, uncertain. “Then, Lady Selyse _has_ returned from Castle Black unharmed?”

Stannis gave a heavy sigh that carried the weight of the world. He rose from his seat, and wandered over to the nearest fireplace, so that his back was facing Jon. “You’ve missed much, Jon Snow. I’d thought my lady wife might have explained some of it to you… but perhaps she thought certain truths were best left coming from me. So be it. Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen are… gone. They were murdered by that _creature_ Bowen Marsh.”

Jon could sense the sorrow in the King’s voice. “Your grace… I’m so sorry.

“I was at Moat Cailin when I learned the truth. It’s said Marsh grew mad with power… that he was enslaved by the will of the Others, and made sacrifices of his own men and prisoners. When I returned to Winterfell some weeks later, I found Lady Melisandre already waiting for me. She was a great comfort to me… and we were married that very night… in the Light of the Lord. It seemed the wisest choose… given…” The King’s thought trailed off.

Jon did not know what to say. He saw the logic of it. Most of Stannis’ men had already regarded her as their true queen. She held great sway, perhaps more than the King himself. “I… I’m sure she will give you many sons, your grace.”

“Aye. A King needs an heir,” he whispered to the flames. He turned his head then, and met Jon’s gaze. “I am well aware of what gathers beyond your Wall. My Queen has shown them to me in her flames… ‘an ancient evil’ she says, ‘wrought of ice and nightmares’. Your brothers do not stand alone in the coming war. But that’s also why the Seven Kingdoms must be united behind their true king, if we ever hope to defeat these… _creatures_.” Stannis turned back to the hearth, and for a time, the room became very silent, save for the crackle of flame.

***

Jon and the King spoke at some length that night. When the first few rays of dawn came creeping into the hall, Jon rose to take his leave. As he made his way towards the rear of the hall, one final question entered his mind.

“Your grace…” he said, turning. “Theon Greyjoy. Is it true that you captured him?”

“It _was_ true,” the King replied, stepping down from his throne with a grunt. “Until I took his head off over a heart tree, and watched it roll against my foot, his face still plastered with that inane grin.” Stannis drew Lightbringer from its scabbard, as if to prove the point. “He may have proven a valuable hostage in keeping the Ironmen at bay, but the Northmen would never have allowed him to live. They demanded his head, in payment for the Eddard Stark’s sons. They were your brothers, Lord Snow; I’d assume you’d have done the same.”

“Yes,” Jon nodded slowly, trying to picture his little brothers’ faces, sweet Bran and wild Rickon. When he realised he couldn’t, he felt his wounds sting again. “I only wished he’d suffered more,” he heard his voice echo down the hall.

“He did,” Stannis replied bluntly. “Ramsay Snow turned him into a quivering slave, more dog than man. In the end, Lord Snow, he _begged_ for death. The Northmen thought of it as vengeance, but I could see in the boy’s eyes it was a mercy. His rebel sister was spared though. You may have seen in her in dungeons.” Stannis followed Jon as he made his way to the doorway. “It was strange though. As his blood poured out into the roots of the tree, all of our ravens took flight, and began screaming ‘King! King! King!’ My God is R’hllor, Jon Snow, but I will not deny your Old Gods have power in these lands.”

Jon bowed at last, and exited the great hall. The cold dawn air rushed against red face, running down his spine like a razor. He shivered, and pulled his cloak tight over his shoulders.

As he walked through the inner yard, he watched Stannis’ knights emerging from their quarters. Some nodded at him discerningly, while others merely stared, and whispered as he passed them by. Jon reflected on what he and Stannis had discussed. It was a lot to take in.

Walking back along the parapets towards his father’s study, Jon heard something from outside the walls. The men in the camps were chanting, and when he gazed down at them, he realised they were speaking to him. “STARK!” they were calling, in the tongues of bears and giants, and mermen and moose. They were many voices at first, but quickly bled into one. “STARK! …STARK! …STARK! …STARK!”

There was a raven cawing in the distance, and for some reason, Jon thought of his father’s Weirwood tree. _I need to visit the Godswood,_ he realised. _I need to speak to the Old Gods._


	4. Jon and the Weary Raven

**Jon and the Weary Raven**

The Weirwood tree gazed at Jon Snow. Its expression was stern and sullen. Mountains of dry leaves were piled above its ancient roots, while naked branches swayed to the wind’s gentle song. Its eyes seemed sad, as though they carried a lifetime of torment and anguish.

Jon was kneeling by the black pool, listened to his heartbeat. The still silence of the Godswood was a welcome refrain, compared to the fire and fury of the great keep. Jon had never been that devout in his former life—such piety was not demanded by the Northmen—yet he’d felt strangely drawn to the tree these past few days. Something had happened while he’d been in his wolf form. The Old Gods had spoken to him, yet their words were now lost to his human thoughts. He prayed for some sort of guidance, some sense of how to proceed next. He could sense danger and treachery all about him, and feared where the path Stannis had laid out for him may lead. But the old tree yielded no answers, only the rustling of leaves.

Jon allowed his thoughts to wander to little Arya. He was beginning to worry about her. She had been expected to return to Winterfell weeks ago, yet she continued to linger in Castle Black, with no word to Stannis about when she might depart south. Ravens had been sent in the night, but none were returned. Jon prayed Mance Rayder was keeping her safe. The half-composed letter he was writing for her still lay upon their father’s wooden desk. _Does she even know that I’m still alive?_ He pondered. _Can she sense that Nymeria is not?_ He was beginning to suspect he would need to travel to Castle Black himself, if they were ever to be reunited.

Suddenly, Jon felt the moist air grow warmer, and he knew that _she_ approached, even before he heard her footsteps. “Lord Snow,” Queen Melisandre called in a throaty voice. “I have warned you against praying to these devil trees. I have a mind to offer them to the Lord of Light… but my King forbids it.”

“A wise man,” Jon replied, opening his eyes, and squinting through the dawn light. “Snap one twig on this tree, and R’hllor himself could not save you from the Northmen’s fury. Compared to the Old Gods, your Lord of Light is but a child.”

The Red Queen gave a mocking laugh. “You know nothing, Jon Snow. R’hllor was present at the world’s birth.” Jon turned his head and met Melisandre’s eyes as she moved towards him. Her figure was reflected in the pool, and for a moment she almost seemed to be floating. _Gods, she is beautiful,_ he thought spitefully. Jon rose with a grunt, and brushed the dirt from his breeches.

“Have you brought me word from my sister?”

“I’m afraid not. Our little wolf girl has not made contact with his grace. The entire Wall has remained silent for weeks. I cannot even see it in my flames.” That worried Jon, but he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing it. Every time he looked at Melisandre, he remembered his direwolves burning on the pyre, and his hatred was renewed.

“Why _have_ you come then? To mock my father’s gods?”

“The King’s court will soon commence. Your presence is required.”

“Hardly,” Jon snorted. “Stannis might as well prop a scarecrow in my seat for all the good I do.” Jon knew his seat among the northern lords was purely symbolic—a baseborn place-holder, until his trueborn sister arrived—but it made his silence no easier to bear. _At the Wall I had power. I had friends, and men loyal to me. Down here I am just a bastard boy again, easy to dismiss and even easier to ignore._ He could feel a headache coming on. “I have no taste or talent for statecraft, your grace. I will not deny that Stannis would likely serve the realm better than some 8-year-old Lannister whelp, but my place is with the Night’s Watch, away from all of this… scheming and proselytising.”

Melisandre gave a wry smile. “Ah, Jon Snow, but does the Night’s Watch want you back? Your brothers have replaced you with Lord Commander Mallister, and death has relieved you of your sacred duties.”

“Then I will retake my vows.” He was growing irritated, and could feel his wolfblood simmering.

“Unless they are taken before the Lord of Light, they are meaningless anyway.” She gazed into the black pool for a moment, watching her reflection ripple along its surface. When she looked back up at him, Jon noticed her expression had softened. “You are growing restless in Winterfell… like a wolf in a cage, yes?” He nodded, hesitantly. “These past nights, my fires have burned red with your anger. Your dreams gnash at me like whipped serpents, yet as you wake they seem to fade into dust.” She pulled off her gloves, and held out her palms to him. They were cracked and bruised, with black welts formed over the fingers.

“My lady,” Jon gasped. “You’re hurt.”

“Oh, these are nothing but curds of the flesh. I have my potions enough to heal them. No, Lord Snow, what truly worries me… is you.”

Jon gave a heavy sigh. “I’m… I’ll be alright, your grace. It’s just hard for me to look at you, without thinking of… of…”

“Ghost,” Melisandre finished. There seemed to be a glint of sympathy in her eye. “The beast loved you well, and he will dwell ever inside you. But if you are looking for someone to blame, then blame the Lord of Ice and Shadow, who twisted Bowen Marsh against you.”

“Believe me, I do,” he whispered darkly.

“But there is something else,” the Queen added, moving towards him. “Something that paws at your thoughts, cloaked beneath a veil of rage and fear… Something you witnessed in your wolf form… I can sense it… _festering…_ ”

There was silence then, and all that could be heard was the rustling of the Weirwood. “I know,” Jon whispered eventually. “I can sense it too. I try to remember, but… it hurts too much.” Jon would see flashes of it in his dreams… _A tree of dangling corpses… The strong smell of spice and cloves… A hart tree, whispering in some familiar voice…_ “The Old Gods spoke to me…”

Melisandre furrowed her brow. “It may be the taunting’s of the Great Other. Of late he has filled my hearth with nightmarish visions, war-cries too dreadful and ancient to decipher.” She placed a burned hand on Jon’s shoulder. “He seeks only to frighten and deceive, so that the moment of his attack will go unrequited.” _Snow,_ the Weirwood seemed to whisper. _Snow…Snow… Snow…_

“It has something to do with Hardhome,” Jon mumbled, deep in thought. “I just know it does. Cotter Pyke said there were dead things in the water, and dead things in the woods. The wildlings were gathering there, seeking some sort of salvation, and yet there has been no word of them, or my men. Likely they are all dead… or worse.”

“The Others have enslaved every living creature beyond the Wall. Soon, they will be ready to breach the realms of men. Perhaps Hardhome will be where their attack will begin.”

“Perhaps,” Jon agreed warily. “But too much remains uncertain. We’ve heard nothing from the Wall in weeks. What if something terrible has happened? What if Arya is in danger? Will your king listen to me then?” The Queen gave no response. “I need to return to the Wall, sooner rather than later. You and Stannis can play your game of thrones, but it will be all for naught if the Wall is breached.”

She nodded. “On that we can agree, Lord Snow.” A cold breeze rushed through the Godswood, and Melisandre slid her white gloves back on. “I can help you remember,” she said. “I have ways of gazing into the mind… if you so desire.”

“I do desire,” he replied, “but not right now. We don’t want to be late for court.” She smiled, and gestured for him to take her hand. They made their way back to the castle walls, arm in arm. 

_***_

As with most mornings, the Great Keep of Winterfell was packed to bursting. All of King Stannis’ lords and knights were in attendance, along with the Queen’s fervent followers, dozens of maesters and squires, and half a hundred envoys waiting impatiently at the back of the room. As Jon entered the hall in a fresh cloak and boots, he felt a wave of heat wash over him. With all twelve hearths ablaze, and so many voices clambering for the King’s ear, the room was practically sweltering.

He jostled his way through the sea of bodies, to take his seat among Stannis’ northern bannermen. Lord’s Cerwyn and Ryswell smiled and nodded at his approach, while Whoresbane rose to feet with a mug of ale in hand. “Warm enough for you, my boy,” he guffawed loudly. “It’s not the fires, mind you; it’s all of this hot air the southrons have been spreading.” Jon chuckled and took his seat beside Lady Dustin, who offered him a curt nod, as was her custom. Jon had been surprised how welcoming all of the northern lords had been during his stay in Winterfell. _Bastard or not,_ he thought. _I am the closest they’re going to get to a Stark until Arya arrives._

Opposite them, on the other side of Winterfell’s throne, sat the proud southron lords, with their big, colourful banners and shiny new armour. “Nary a scratch on them,” Torghen Flint would often remark. “I doubt these southern fairies have been within ten leagues of a real battle.” Ever since a fist-fight had broken out between Whoresbane and Ser Godry, Stannis had placed his southern and northern bannermen at opposite sides of the room.

As they waited for the King to arrive at court, Jon peered around the hall, examining the hundreds of arms and sigils that now lined its walls. He was glad to back in Winterfell, but it no longer felt like home. For, where were the people who had made it a home, laughing and playing and feasting? _Where is Maester Luwin teaching Bran his sums? And where is Septa Mordane, scolding Arya and praising Sansa? Where is Old Nan, sitting in her little rocking chair by the fire, with simple Hodor at her side? And where is father, with his weary smile, at the head of the table?_ They were all gone, all of these people Jon had loved, lost to world, and replaced by strangers. Winterfell was overflowing with bodies, and yet to Jon it felt utterly empty.

Soon enough, the large, oaken doors of the Great Hall creaked open, and a hush fell over the room. A herald’s voice rang out. “All hail his grace! Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.” The King and Queen entered the hall, and began their way down a red and gold carpet. “All hail his Lady Wife,” the herald continued, “Melisandre of Asshai, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and High Priestess to the Lord of Light.” Onlookers bowed as the royal couple passed them by.

Stannis wore a solemn expression beneath his iron crown, with gleaming black armour, and a red cape around his shoulders. Melisandre moved elegantly at his side, her dark red hair cascading down a silken gown that billowed about her ankles. She seemed to float across the hall, nodding graciously at her kneeling subjects.

As Stannis took his seat, the courtiers rose to their feet again. The herald made his way swiftly to the King’s side, with parchment in hand. He was followed soon after by Maester Lorrik, several armoured knights, and lastly, the Queen’s squire, Ser Devan Seaworth.

“Now commences the royal court of King Stannis Baratheon,” Melisandre’s throaty voice echoed down the hall. “May the Lord of Light bless these proceedings, and shine his wisdom down upon us.” She paused for a moment, as her followers repeated the words back to her, before nodding to the herald.

“His grace calls Ser Harold Rainwood, captain of the Red Storm!” A silver-haired knight approached the King’s throne in full armour, and bowed with a laboured grunt.

“Ser Harold!” the King boomed. “What tidings have you brought me from the west?”

“Good tidings, your grace. I am pleased to report that Saltgard, the last fortress held by the wretched Ironmen, has been recaptured. We have acquired ten new hostages, two of them noblemen, and placed them within Winterfell’s dungeons. Furthermore, our men at Sea Dragon Point have sent word that, after a minor skirmish, the last fleet of Ironborn war-ships has sailed south.”

“Heading for the Reach, no doubt,” Stannis replied contemptuously. “Treasonous whores.”

“Indeed your grace,” Ser Harold continued. “The Ironmen are currently using the Shield Islands as their base of operations against the Tyrell’s. The Crow’s Eye… er, that is, Lord Euron Greyjoy, has declared himself King of the Isles and the Reach, and after a protracted siege, has managed to capture Oldtown and take the Archmaester hostage.” Maester Lorrik let out a long gasp.

“That would give them a clear warpath to Highgarden,” Stannis replied with a furrowed brow. “The Tyrell’s must be furious.”

“Indeed your grace. All Tyrell forces in King’s Landing have been deployed west to fortify Highgarden and retake Oldtown. They will be joined by Tarly men on their march through the Riverlands, and Lord Redwyne’s fleet sails north, to rend back the Shield Isles.”

Lord Driftwood was shaking his head in amusement. “The Ironmen will be trapped between three armies. Their position is hopeless. What fools these squids are.”

“Fools they may be,” the Whoresbane replied. “But they are brazen in their folly, and without fear of death. It was _foolish_ of Balon Greyjoy to seize the Stony Shore, but he did it anyway, and look how many years it took us to reclaim it.” He drained the last of mug, and motioned to a serving boy to refill it. “If King Squid was to seal himself up in Oldtown, and set the surrounding farmland to the torch, there’s no telling how long he and his men could hole up in that city, especially with hostages as valuable as the High Maester. Meanwhile, the Tyrell forces will be spread thin, giving the Iron Fleet free plunder across the Reach’s exposed coastline.” Just then, a horrible thought occurred to Jon. Sam had sailed to Oldtown almost a year ago. What if he’d been in the city when it fell to Lord Euron. _No, he said he would visit his family in Horn Hill. He has to be safe. He just has to be._

“It doesn’t matter,” Stannis said. “Whatever chaos is allowed to fester in the south only strengthens my claim for the moment we invade. House Lannister is crippled after the death of Lord Tywin and Ser Kevan. The Tyrell’s are the true power now. If they are forced to tussle with the Ironmen, and stretch their armies across two cities, then so be it. It only weakens their grip on the Seven Kingdoms. So long as the North is made strong and whole once more, I welcome the bloodshed of the South.” _This is cold man, indeed,_ Jon thought.

“Hear, hear!” Ser Axell Florent exclaimed. “There is only so much death and destruction the good people of the south can endure, before they demand the return of their rightful king.”

Stannis nodded. “Speaking of which, what news is there from that cesspool King’s Landing?”

Maester Lorrik stepped forward, and offered a small bow. “More treachery, I am afraid. The disgraced queen, Cersei Lannister, has been found guilty of treason, murder and fornication. Her fate was decided in a trial by combat, in which Ser Robert Strong, a member of the Kingsguard, was defeated and killed by a Warrior of the Faith.”

“What warrior?” the Whoresbane scoffed. “That he would fight for a septon rather than a King.”

“A cowled monk,” the maester replied, “known only as ‘Stranger’. As for his true identity, I could not say. Regardless, Lady Cersei has been imprisoned in the Black Cells, and Olenna Tyrell named Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lady Dustin seemed confused. “If Cersei was found guilty, would that not be proof of Tommen’s illegitimacy.”

“You would think,” Maester Lorrik said, “but it would seem that Jaime Lannister was omitted from her list of accused lovers at the last moment.”

“No doubt at the Tyrell’s request,” Lady Dustin replied. “I smell Lady Olenna’s fingerprints all over that one. After all, her entire power rests on Tommen’s golden locks. I am sure Queen Maegery has been found innocent of all charges.”

“She has,” the maester confirmed. “Such corruption,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“Hmm,” Stannis pondered. “Perhaps the Tyrell’s are less vulnerable than I had presumed. Their grip on King’s Landing remains firm, and if they are able throw the Ironmen back into the tide without too much fuss, they may still hold the southern kingdoms intact.” He paused for a moment, massaging his forehead. “No, what we need is chaos. Chaos until we are ready to launch our attack. Ser Massey needs more time to muster our armies in Braavos. More time…”

A tall, thin man that Jon did not recognise approached the throne then. He was garbed in a black, silken robe, and he bowed low with a wide sweep of his arm. “Lord Connington has given us time, your grace, as well as chaos. The rumours are true. Storm’s End has fallen to the Golden Company.”

“Impossible,” the King exclaimed.

“Impossible, but true,” the man replied. “And my spies in the south tell me that Dorne moves to support him.”

“Who is that?” Jon whispered to no one in particular.

“Lucas Farrow,” Lady Dustin replied. “The King’s Master of Whispers. He hails from Bravos, sent by the Iron Bank to aide in the King’s claim.”

Stannis considered Master Farrow’s words carefully, before taking a sip of wine. “Lord Arryn always suspected Dorne of being a hotbed of Targaryen loyalists, but Prince Doran has always proved himself a calm and cautious man. Surely he is wise enough not to believe these false tales of baby Aegon returning from the dead. The boy was slain before his first name-day, by that man-beast Gregor Clegane.”

“Lord Connington claims otherwise,” Farrow insisted. “And if words fail him, he has an army of ten-thousand men to argue his point.”

Lord Peasbury was starting to look worried. “If Dorne were to join him, that number would triple.”

Stannis’ face remained a mask. “The Lannister’s and Tyrell’s still outnumber them. Let them fight to their hearts content. Whichever side is still standing at the end will be too exhausted to oppose us.”

“Hear! Hear!” Ser Axell chimed in again.

“As you say, your grace,” Farrow gave another prosperous bow. “So long as our enemies are at each other’s throats, we are given ample time to strengthen our forces and gather our friends for the coming fight.”

Ser Axell raised his wine cup in triumph. “You shall sit the Iron Throne before the year is out, your grace.” His words were starting to slur. “Brightwater Keep stands with you! And soon stag and fox shall prance through the Red Keep in victory.”

Farrow shot Ser Axell a side-ways glance. “The Iron Bank stands with you as well, sire… so long as certain _remunerations_ are gratified.”

The King was not amused. “I gave your bosses my word, Master Farrow. The Iron Bank will have its due, but speak to me like that in this court again… and you will wish you hadn’t.”

“Of course, sire. Ten thousand apologies. I only meant—”

“Your grace,” Ser Manderly interrupted, eager to calm the situation. “More friends flock to your cause every day, not just in the North, but the Riverlands as well. House Mallister has pledged their swords for you, as have House Blackwood.”

“Have they?” The King grunted. “How nice of them.” That amused Jon. _A year ago, you’d have given your left arm for such allies, but now they are just another arrow in the quiver._ Stannis’ star was truly beginning to rise.

“Indeed, sire. Their allegiance has not been made public of course, but they have promised to wed their strength to yours, the moment you march south. Ser Brynden Tully has bent the knee as well. He has raised an army of outlaws, as well as Stark and Tully men, scattered by the Red Wedding. He plans to march south with us, to retake Riverrun for his nephew Edmure.”

“I would sooner hang such outlaws than drape my banner around their necks, but if they want to slay Frey’s, I’ll not dissuade them.”

The Whorsebane drew his sword. “So long as they leave some for me!” A cry went up from the Northmen, and there was much banging of fists and stamping of feet.

“Silence!” The King boomed. “I’ll not have my court turned into some five-copper bawdy house.” He gestured to Maester Lorrik. “What’s next?”

The maester reached into his robes and produced a piece of parchment. “There was a letter from the Vale. It arrived during the night.” He unfurled the parchment. “Lord Petyr Baelish has requested his and her grace’s presence… for the wedding of Harrold Hardyng and Alayne Stone. The ceremony is to be held at the Bloody Gate.” _A charming proposal._

Stannis snatched the parchment from the maester and read it again. “Why in R’hllor’s name should I care about the wedding of a minor lordling and a bastard girl?”

“The bastard is Lord Baelish’s own daughter,” Lorrik replied. “And the lordling is second in line to the Eyrie.”

“What is Littlefinger up to?” the King murmured, reading the letter a second time. “Is there no end to his scheming? I’ve never trusted the man. He cares only for money and whores.”

“The man has bolstered considerable wealth, your grace. Perhaps it would prove a _profitable_ friendship.”

“And why should I want a friend like him, some up-jumped sheep-herder turned brothel-owner. He’d have been run out of the city if I’d had my way.”

Master Farrow stepped forward again. “Whatever he may have been in King’s Landing, the man is now Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord Protector of the Vale. Baelish has invited you, your grace. Not King Tommen, not Lady Olenna, but you… Don’t you see, he means to support your claim.” Farrow let the King absorb that. “My humble advice is to accept his offer of friendship, if only to deny his wealth and power to your enemies.”

The King thought on that for a moment, stroking his black and silver beard, as the court sat in silence. “I’ll consider it,” he said after a while, and returned the letter to Maester Lorrik. “What else is there?”

As it turned out, there was a lot “else”. Most of the discussion had to do with grain supplies, the feeding and arming of troops, and the fortifications of the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point, lest any Ironmen decide to return. Maester Lorrik and Lord Cerwyn got into a rather heated argument over what lands were now subject to Stannis’ rule as acting lord of Winterfell, but the remainder of proceedings were largely uneventful. The envoys were all appeased, and Ser Harold and a number of other knights were awarded lands and dowries for their service.

Jon felt himself growing weary, slouching further and further down into his seat. The hall was oppressively hot, and he could feel himself falling asleep. His thoughts drifted back to the Godswood, and for a moment he could picture his brother Bran. “Hardhome,” he seemed to whisper. “Lightbringer… In _Hardhome_ …” It was a foolish thought, though. Bran had died years ago.

Suddenly, Jon was jolted awake by the flutter of wings. The other courtiers seemed to have heard it as well, as their eyes were darting around in search of its source. _“Snow!”_ squawked a voice from outside the hall. _“Snow! Snow! Snow!”_ The oaken doors of the keep seemed to shudder, and Ser Godry quickly drew his blade, and ran towards them.

As he draw the doors open, a tattered black raven flickered into the room, followed by a rush of icy cold air. The bird circled the room frantically, calling for _“corn”_ and _“snow”_ and _“king.”_ Finally, it locked onto its target, and swooped down to land on Jon’s shoulder.

 _“Corn!”_ it demanded once more, and dropped a scrap of paper into Jon’s palm. Jon raised the paper to eye level, and realised with a mix of fear and excitement that it bore the wax sigil of House Stark.

“It’s from Arya!” He exclaimed.

“I’ll take that!” Maester Lorrik said, snatching the letter from Jon. “God knows his grace has waited long enough.”

“Indeed,” Stannis added. “One might think that I’ve offended your lovely lady sister, that she should linger so long at the Wall.”

Jon watched with baited breath as Maester Lorrik unfurled the paper and gazed upon its contents. As his eyes moved back and forth along the page, his face seemed to shrink, and then twist into an expression of pure terror. “Your grace,” he managed to splutter after a few moments. “It’s not, it’s not… I can’t… _How?!_ ”

“Give me that,” the King snapped, rending the letter from his maester’s trembling hands. Jon watched in dismay as the same frightened expression spread its way across Stannis’ face. He let the paper fall to the ground. _No,_ Jon thought. _No, not Arya. How could the Gods be that cruel?_

Melisandre picked it back up, and began to read aloud. _“To the King… Castle Black has fallen. The Others have broken through the Wall.”_ A gasp shot up from the courtiers, but Jon could barely hear it for the beating of his heart.

“ _You must send reinforcements as soon as this raven reaches you, which I pray is quickly. They attacked us in the dead of night, blowing some hideous horn. The Wall around the castle crumbled. We held them off for as long as we could, but there was too many of them, and they would not stay dead. They seem to be afraid of fire, but nothing else. Tormund Gianstbane is dead, along with a hundred more brave wildlings._

_“Me and the survivors fled south, to the mountains, with Mance Rayder. Lord Commander Mallister rode west, to the Shadow Tower, where the Wall appears mainly intact. I am writing you this letter from Hurrik’s Perch, where we have walled ourselves in from the Others. We can see them on the horizon. Their ranks are unending, and they carry a terrible storm with them. Thankfully, they can only march at night, but the days are growing shorter, and they will be upon us soon. We may not have the strength to hold them off. We have nowhere else to go. Please send all able-bodied men and women. Please…_

_“From Arya of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North”_

As the queen finished reading, an eerie silence descended over the room. Jon’s heart was thumping in his ears. His tongue was bone dry. His throat seemed to swell and choke him of air. He had dreamed of this nightmare so many times he thought he’d be ready for it, but he wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

“This is madness,” Ser Axell said at last. “We can’t… We can’t go north. The Iron Throne is in the _south_. Does Lady Arya take us for fools? Utter _madness_.”

“Are you bleeding deaf?!” Whoresbane roared, jumping to his feet. “The Wall has fallen. The Others—”

“Northern superstition!” Lord Driftwood declared. “The Wall cannot fall, certainly not to a horn. The Others are gone, if they ever existed at all. No doubt this is just another Wildling attack.”

“Perhaps the girl is confused,” Maester Lorrik offered. “She is quite young after all. If the wildlings scaled the Wall, then perhaps she mistook it for…”

“Mistook what!?” Whorebane spluttered, choking on his own rage. “She writes in black and white that Castle Black has fallen.”

“We must send her men!” Lady Dustin cried.

“We have no men to spare,” Ser Harold replied. “The North is held together by a thread.”

Lord Manderly rose to his feet. “What about the soldiers at the Stony Shore?!” He said. “If they ride without rest, they could reach Hurrik’s Perch within a week.”

“No!” Ser Harold stammered. “That would leave us vulnerable to the Ironmen. We must guard the coasts.”

Lord Locke rose as well. “I will send my builders and masons from Oldcastle immediately. The Wall must be repaired—

“No, Lord Locke!” Maester Lorrik exclaimed. “Your builders are required in the Neck, to raise our siege engines for the march south.”

“There won’t be a march south!” the Whorebane roared, drawing his blade. “Not while Lady Arya is in danger and the North under attack.”

Ser Godry rushed forward with sword in hand. “How dare you draw steel in the presence of the King?!”

“He who would abandon the Watch is not King of _mine_!”

After that, madness ensued. The Northmen began spilling out of their seats, shouting at the top of their lungs. More swords were drawn, and more insults exchanged. Fights erupted between White Harbor knights and Stannis’ guards. _I have to get out of here,_ Jon thought, tears rolling down his face. _I have to save her…_

Stannis sat silent in his seat, Arya’s letter crumpling at his feet. Melisandre laid a nervous hand on the King’s shoulder, but his face remained a sullen stare. The shadows of the courtiers danced across the walls of the great hall, and the hearths burned red and wild. The heat was unbearable.

Jon wrenched himself from his seat, and staggered across the stone tiles. All around him was noise and fury, with people shoving and screaming and crying, but the noise seemed to fade in Jon’s mind, until all he could hear was his own breathing. He made his way through the chaos, to the great oaken doors at the end of the hall. He placed his hands on the old iron handles, and pulled both doors apart with a grunt. The cold night air of Winterfell’s courtyard rushed into the room, and swallowed Jon whole.


	5. Jon departs Winterfell

**Jon departs Winterfell**

Night glowered above the turrets of old Winterfell. It was a starless sky, and black storm-clouds were rolling in from the north. The wind howled angrily, as Jon walked along the parapets with an armoured knight on either side of him. Since Arya’s letter had arrived that morning, furious fighting had erupted between the stags and the wolves. Stannis had been forced to open the gates, and have soldiers from the camps enter and quell the turmoil. Never had tensions between the Northmen and the Southrons been so great. Now hundreds of men-at-arms lined the castle walls, watching for any sign of unrest.

Jon arrived at the King’s chambers, and one of the knights opened the door and shoved him forward. As he entered, he felt the warm glow of a hearth wash over his icy skin. The King sat before a huge, grey map of Westeros, with Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Godry Farring standing at his side. Ink marks and wine stains covered the map. Queen Melisandre sat in a wooden chair by the fireplace, her gaze firmly on Jon.

“Lord Snow,” the King grunted, and beckoned Jon with a gloved hand. His tone was laced with anger. “Where in god’s name did you think you were going after court this morning?”

Jon no longer cared what Stannis thought of him. “I left to pack my arms and stock my garron.”

“And where exactly had you planned on going, had my men not stopped you at Winterfell’s gates?”

Stannis’ guards had detained Jon for almost six hours, and he was in no mood to play the courteous vassal. “I planned to ride north, to Hurrick’s Perch… while you and your pets squabbled in the Great Hall.”

“How dare you speak to your King like that?!” Ser Richard declared, his hand moving swiftly to his hilt.

“No, how dare you?!” Jon spat back, his eyes firmly on Stannis. “How dare you call yourself King, while our enemy marches across the realm, and you sit here and play politics.” He flicked the map across the table in disgust.

“Your grace,” Ser Godry spoke, “Let my gut this insolent bastard, once and for all.”

“Withdraw, Ser Godry,” Melisandre whispered darkly. “This is none of your concern.” The hearth flared up, and Ser Godry backed away from Jon. Longclaw still hung mockingly from his belt.

Jon continued, undeterred. “For over a week I’ve been asking for leave to return to the Wall, but no, you needed me around as your rallying stick.” He could see the King growing red with anger, but he’d come too far to stop. “And now this happens, and my sister cowers in the mountains as any army of death surrounds her.” Tears stung the back of his eyes.

Stannis was grinding his teeth. “I don’t care if the Others are on our doorstep tomorrow. I will not abandon my claim to the throne.” He slammed the table, knocking over a cup of wine. “Not now! Not ever!”

“My King,” Melisandre spoke in a softer tone. “Of course the realm must be united under its true King, but Lord Snow speaks truth. The Wall must be guarded. The Great Other has commenced his assault.”

“Then why was it not seen in your flames?!” The King shot back. The Queen offered no answer to that. “Curse these brigands in black cloaks. No sooner had I won the North than they let our enemies waltz right into the realm.” Stannis tore himself up from his chair and stomped over to a window. “Curse them to hell!” He roared.

Jon rose from his seat steadily. “If you do not answer this call… then perhaps you were never a King to begin with.” Stannis winced at that. Horpe and Farring moved towards Jon like wraiths, their swords in hand. Jon stepped back, clasping his dagger hilt.

“Stop this folly!” The Queen exclaimed, rising from her chair, and standing between them. “By the Lord of Light, stay your weapons.” The two knights halted, and sheathed their blades warily. Jon released his grip, and sat back down. Stannis had not moved an inch.

The King continued to stare at his own murky reflection in the window. “We’ve had more letters from the Watch,” he said after a while. “The Shadow Tower confirms Arya Stark’s story, as does Freehold and the Nightfort… The Others have returned, and they’ve raised Castle Black to the ground.”

“My sister is no liar, _your grace_.”

Stannis turned and studied Jon for a moment. The room was silent, save the crackling of flame. “You have grown bold in your second life. The Jon Snow I knew at Castle Black would never have spoken to me thusly.” He returned to the table, and pressed the grey map back to its original position. “Though perhaps I can sympathise with your vexation. I know what it is to love a sibling, whether I wanted to or not.”

The King rotated the map, so that Jon could see it, and then tapped at the point where Castle Black had been located. “The Wall from Oakenshield to Queensgate is shattered. Lord Mallister’s scouts report thousands of Wights flowing through the cracks. They are led by these so-called ‘White Walkers’… wraiths who ride dead horses, and wield spears of ice.”

“Only dragonglass can defeat the Walkers,” Jon replied. “Fire will do for the Wights.”

“Yes, I know. Mance Rayder managed to salvage four crates of obsidian during the attack. He brought them to Hurrik’s Perch, along with Lady Stark and the other survivors.”

“Good. If the mountain clans can fashion dragonglass blades and arrow-heads, they’ll have a fighting chance.” Jon traced a line from Castle Black to Hurrik’s perch with his finger. “According to this map, Arya is fifteen leagues from the wreckage. If the Others can travel only at night, then they have, at most… two weeks before they are attacked.” Jon’s eyes rose to meet the King’s. “Your Warden of the North calls for aide, sire, as do the Night’s Watch, and all the hill tribes and wildlings who dwell in the Gift. If they are defeated, then the Others will move further south, first to Last Hearth, then to Karhold, down the Long Lake and through the Wolfswood, and eventually to Winterfell itself. What will your claim be worth then, when you are besieged by an army of ice and shadow?” Jon slammed his fist on the map. “We _must_ raise our forces against them, your grace. We must take the fight to _them_!”

“I know, Lord Snow. Don’t you think I’ve been over this half a hundred times today? It is my duty to protect the realm… above _all_. But my bannermen are at each other throats. I’ve had lords and knights who’ve remained loyal for years, defeats and all, only to watch my kingship rise and fall on the wings of a raven.”

Melisandre’s slender shadow moved across the map, and Jon felt her warm hand rest on his shoulder. “It matters not,” she said softly. “You are their King. _Command_ and they will obey.”

The King gave a heavy sigh and rubbed his wrinkled forehead. His eyes were bloodshot. It looked as though he hadn’t slept in years. “From what Arya and Mance tell us, all of the Wildlings in the Gift have gathered here, in Hurrik’s Perch.” He tapped a small black dot within the western hills. “Likely the mountain men are among them. Their numbers will be strong, and the mountains will provide good cover and high ground. In the meantime, I will deploy two-thousand men from Sea Dragon Point, and a further five-hundred from the Stony Shore to reinforce their ranks.” Jon gave a sigh of relief. _Perhaps he will prove an honourable King after all._

Ser Richard’s shadow flickered over the map as well. “So long as the weather holds, it should only take our men five or six days to arrive.” _So long as they only stop to sleep._ “The Others may reach the mountains within a fortnight, but it will take just as long to trek the maze of rock and winding paths that lead up to Hurrik’s Perch. We ought to know, we walked it ourselves.”

Stannis tapped Sea Dragon Point again. “I will also send four longships to rescue any women and children caught in the mountains, including your sister Arya. I swear by the Lord of Light, I shall ferry her back to Winterfell unharmed.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Jon replied humbly.

Stannis continued. “Now, the main battle will likely take place at Hurrik’s Perch, which is why I will deploy a further five-thousand men-at-arms from Winterfell, to try and rout the Others in their trek through the mountains. But as your say, Lord Snow, they may also make for Last Hearth, which is why I’ve sent Whoresbane and Crowfood, with one-thousand men, to garrison their castle, and to shelter any and all smallfolk fleeing the invasion.”

“This is a sound strategy, your grace, but so long as the Wall stands agape, there’s no telling how many Walkers will march through it. The Wall must be repaired, sooner rather than later.”

“And it will,” Stannis said. “Lord’s Locke and Ryswell have graciously offered me four scores of builders and masons from their castles. Once the threat has been nullified, I will set them to work raising a stockade of timber and rock along the broken border.”

“Your grace, forty men is hardly enough—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Lord Snow,” the King scolded. “Obviously the builders will supervise construction. The work itself will be carried out by the thousands of Wildlings and Night’s Watchmen who let this happen in the first place.” _Even now he blames them._

“I’m told Mance has a giant or two in his service. I’m sure they will come in handy.”

Jon nodded. “His name is Wun Wun. They say the Wall was raised by giants… thousands of years ago.”

“Then so it shall be once more. But we are getting well ahead of ourselves. First we must meet these godforsaken creatures in battle, and throw them back into the frozen wastes from whence they came.” Jon wished he shared the King’s confidence, but the Others were _not_ Wildlings. They did not feel fear or panic or sorrow. Their ranks would not break before a cavalry charge. And to hear Sam tell it, they would _never_ stop fighting, even with their dying breath.

Stannis traced a line down the western coast, all the way to the Neck. “I will replenish our garrisons along the coast with soldiers from Winterfell, but my twenty-thousand men at Moat Cailin will remain in place for the march south. As far as my southron lords are concerned, _nothing has changed_. However, I shall remain here in Winterfell, until such time as this northern threat is quelled.”

“I will be ready to depart for Hurrik’s Perch within the hour, sire.”

“You won’t be going to Hurrik’s Perch, Lord Snow.” Jon was confused. _Why would he send me to Last Hearth?_ “I am sending you to White Harbor, and then north to East-Watch.”

 _East-Watch?_ Jon had not expected that. “Why? The battle will be waged in the west.”

“Aye, but the war will be won at the Wall. You had the right of it, Lord Snow. The Wall must be guarded, and despite my efforts to raise your stature, your blood runs Black.” Stannis took a sip of dark red wine, and ran his finger to the western edge of the Wall. “The Watch is now vulnerable at three points. Lord Commander Mallister holds the Shadow Tower with eight-hundred men. He guards the gorge and the Bridge of Skulls. East-Watch, however, has less than a hundred fighters, and remains leaderless after Cotter Pyke was swallowed by the Shivering Sea.” Jon was stung with a pang of guilt. “I want you to sail to East-Watch, with three-hundred swords, and raise the castle back to its former strength. It will prove valuable in guarding the Bay of Seals, and eventually in mending the shattered Wall east of Queensgate.” Jon pondered the King’s proposal for a moment. He traced the string of jagged coastline north of East-Watch, up and up it went, all the way to… _Hardhome_. Jon raised his eyes, and caught Melisandre gazing at him. She offered the faintest nod.

“You said so yourself, sire, my allegiance to the Night’s Watch is extinguished. My Brothers have replaced me.”

“Your Brothers think you dead and buried,” the King replied. “Doubtless Mallister will remain Lord Commander, but he would not hesitate to appoint you Commander of East-Watch-by-the-Sea… And if he does I will _convince_ him.”

“Alright,” Jon nodded. “I’ll go.”

“Of course you’ll go,” the King replied, aggravated. “I _commanded_ it.”

***

Jon made his way through the darkened courtyard in long strides. Thunder crackled in the distance, and with a rush of icy air, he pulled his furs closer to his chest. Jon had never seen Winterfell so silent, nor felt so cold, since his return from the Wolfswood. Now he would leave it once more, off to some unknown shore, where an unknown fate awaited him. Jon wondered whether he would ever see the castle again. Somehow he doubted it, and sadly that did not bother him.

“Lord Snow,” a high pitched voice squeaked from behind. Jon turned to discover Ser Daven Seaworth trotting after him. “His grace has named me your squire.” He reached Jon, and gave an awkward bow. “For your voyage to East-Watch-by-the-Sea.”

“I am no knight,” Jon replied wearily. “But if you would like to assist me, I would welcome the help. I have several matters to attend to before setting out for White Harbor.”

“Then I am yours to command, my lord.”

 _He is a sweet boy,_ Jon thought, smiling, _but hardly ready for the bloodshed that awaits him in the north._ He grasped Devan by his plate mail, and hoisted him back to his feet. _Were you?_ Another voice echoed in Jon’s head. _Were any of us?_

“Pack warm,” he told the boy, and when you are ready, meet me in my chambers. I have an important task that needs doing. Devan bowed again, and departed.

Jon made his way up to his late father’s study. On entering, he considered lighting a fire, but chose not to. _I will need to get used to the cold again. I’ve spent too long within smoky feasting halls._ In the corner of the room was the satchel of clothes he’d packed that morning. Beside it stood his father’s death, with a blank piece of paper at its centre.

Jon lit some candles and sat down on the bed. After a while there was a short, sharp knock at the door. “Enter.”

Ser Devan walked in the room with a saddlebag in each hand. He let them fall to the floor with a thumb, and closed the door behind him. “It l-looks as though a-a storm is c-coming,” he stammered.

“It’s a few days off yet,” Jon replied. “Take a seat at that desk over there. You’ll find some paper and ink.” The boy obeyed diligently. “I need you to write a letter for my sister Arya. I’d write it myself, but my hands seem to have forgotten how.”

“Of course, my lord.” Devan dipped a dry quill in some ink, and set it to paper.

Jon had written this letter a hundred times in his mind, but saying it out loud was a different thing entirely. _“Dear Little Sister,”_ he began. He paused for a moment, forming the words in his mind. And then they came, pouring out of him.

_“It seems father was right all along… winter has come, and now it’s time for us wolves to show our mettle… Yes, it’s me Jon. I’m alive, thanks to you. You saved me Arya… I was lost in the wilderness, frightened and alone, and you lead me home again. Now it’s time for me to return the favour._

_“King Stannis has promised to send seven-thousand soldiers. They should arrive at the mountains within a week, along with longships for the women and children… I am sure you and Mance will put them to good use._

_“The obsidian will prove your greatest weapon in the coming battle. Melt it down to craft daggers, swords, spears and arrow-heads. But use it only against the Others. The Wights, the dead creatures, they can be killed by fire… I had hoped to join you in Hurrik’s Perch, to help you send those ice demons back to hell, but I am needed at the Wall._

_“Stay safe, Arya, and come home. I want to see my little sister again, to hug her and muss up her hair, and hear all about her adventures… The days grow short, and the nights grow cold, but the hearths in Winterfell burn bright once more. I will see you soon. I promise…_

_“Love Jon.”_

When Devan had finished writing, Jon took the quill and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page. “Take that to Maester Lorrik in the rookery. Have him send it to Hurrik’s Perch as soon as possible. After that, I want you to go to the armoury, and pick me out the best sword and shield you can find. Have the blade sharpened and then meet me in the practice yard tomorrow morning. We depart at dawn.”

“Yes, my lord.” Devan folded the letter and stuffed it in his pocket. He picked up his saddlebags, and gave a polite nod, before exiting the room.

Jon sat at his desk for a while, listened to the cold winds roar outside his window. The candles flickered nervously, as a chill crept into the dim room. Jon looked down and realised his hands were shaking. He poured himself a cup of wine to calm his nerves.

The path before him was bathed in shadows. Jon had never even seen a ship before, let alone sailed one through the endless ocean. Winter would wrack their voyage with vicious storms. No doubt Ser Manderly would provide them with a set of stout ships, but Jon would need a good crew and well-worn captains to survive the passage north. _Perhaps I’ll find them among the docks of White Harbor… or perhaps they are waiting for me in the dungeons of Winterfell._

East-Watch seemed half a world away, but it was Hardhome that truly intrigued Jon. _The frozen city beyond the Wall._ There was something there the needed to be found. Some ancient power festered within its ruins. Jon saw the city in his dreams… _its black stone towers crumbling into the icy waves… cracked walls covered in vine and hoarfrost…_ He knew he would find answers there, and by the look of it, so did Queen Melisandre.

***

The dungeons of Winterfell reeked of piss and dry blood. As Jon descended the craggy stone steps, the groans of prisoners wafted up to meet him. Down and down he went, his studded boots echoing as he walked. _Clack, clack, clack._ The air grew moist and stale, until at last Jon planted his feet on even ground. A dark corridor fed out before him, with barred chambers on either side. The gaoler Rolland was sitting in the corner, fiddling with some barbed restraints. He looked up and gave a curt nod. Barely a fortnight ago, Jon himself had been locked down here, back when he was in his wolf form.

He strode down the corridor, passing row after row of dank prison cell. He held a lantern at his side, and its flickering light splashing against the walls, making the shadows move and shift like ripples in a pond. Jon glimpsed men behind the bars, cowering in the corners of their cells, shielding their eyes from the fire. Some moved towards Jon like curious dogs, their hands outstretched for some token of mercy.

Finally, Jon found the prisoner he was looking for. It was the very last cell on the rank, where the torchlight was faintest. She was sitting at the end of her bed, and looked up warily at his approach.

“Who are you?” Asha Greyjoy muttered from the darkness. Jon could see fresh bruises beneath her tangled black hair. Her skin was pale and shrivelled, as though she’d not eaten or seen the sun in weeks. _Ironborn or not, no one deserves this._

“My name is Jon Snow,” he said, moving closer to the bars.

The girl offered a meek smile. “My wolf prince. Have you come to rescue me?”

“You could say that.” He pulled something from his cloak and held it out towards her. “Here. It’s some bread from the kitchen.” She took the paper bag and carefully unwrapped it. “Eat it slowly,” Jon warned after she had begun to attack the loaf. “Lady Asha, I have a proposal for you.”

“You should know I’m already married,” she replied with a mouthful of bread.

Jon chuckled. “I’m taking a little voyage… and I need a good captain.”

Asha stopped chewing. “A captain,” she repeated. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“You are an Ironborn noble, are you not? Surely you have your own ship.”

“ _The Black Wind,_ and it’s been mine since I was six-and-ten.”

“I have ships waiting for me in White Harbor, courtesy of Ser Manderly, and men to sail them, but our passage north will be treacherous, and I want a captain who knows the seas as well as I know the Wall.”

“White Harbor is on the Shivering Sea. I’ve only sailed the Sunset Sea, and the waters of Dorne.”

Jon shrugged. “It’s all the same, isn’t it?”

“Only a fool from the green lands would say that. Every body of water has its own current… its own speed and temper.”

“All the more reason for you to guide me through it.”

“I am Stannis’ prisoner. He would never let me go.”

“I think he would… if I asked him to. And you’ll still be a prisoner, except you’ll be my prisoner. You and your men will remain in chains until we set sail from White Harbor. Any attempt to escape will be punished with immediate execution. What say you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course. You can sit in your cell, in the dark, for however long it takes for your uncle to ransom you… or you can sail north with me, to the Bay of Seals and the lands beyond the Wall, and feel the winter sun on your skin once more.” Asha gave a slow nod, and Jon took that as a yes.

He motioned to the bruises on her cheek. “Who did that to you?”

“Oh,” she touched her face lightly. “Ser Godry seems to blame me for everything that goes around here. Ser Clayton likes to watch, but he never joins in… _the coward_.”

 _And they call me baseborn_ , Jon thought angrily. “I’m sorry my lady. That should never have been allowed to happen. I mean to have a word with the Giantslayer before I leave.”

“My hero,” she snickered. Even in this pit of despair, Asha Greyjoy had a wild beauty about her.

“Pick your five best men,” Jon said.

She thought for a moment, shovelling the last the bread into her mouth. “Qarl the Maid, Roggon Rustbeard, Grimtongue, Fingers… and Tristifer Botley.” Jon turned to Rolland and nodded. He rose from his stall with a groan, and pulled a large ring of keys from his coat pocket.

When all of the Ironborn prisoners were lined up, Jon offered them the same deal he’d given to Asha. “It will be a dangerous trip,” he told them, “especially now that winter is here. Some of you may die along the way.”

The one they called Grimtongue shrugged. “Better to die with saltwater in our lungs, than to rot away in this wolf’s den.” The others nodded their agreement.

By the time Jon and his prisoners had emerged from the dungeon, morning had settled over Winterfell. A light dusting of snowflakes powdered the castle walls, and for a moment the towers seemed to shimmer like glass in the morning sun. Stannis’ knights were breaking their fast in the practice yard, while some of their squires trained with sword and shield. Jon spied Ser Devan by the armoury. He was feeding oats to their horses.

Jon turned back to the gaoler. “Rolland. Have these prisoners washed and fed, and give them some warm coats for the ride. If any of them try to run, send an arrow through their neck.” Rolland grinned and nodded. Asha gave Jon a mocking bow as she passed, mouthing the words _my hero_.

“Oy!” a voice called from the yard. It was Ser Godry. Jon turned to find the Giantslayer and his lackey Clayton Suggs stomping towards him. “Those are the King’s prisoners. Where do you think you’re taking them, boy?”

 _Far from you, ser._ “I have need of them at White Harbor.”

“Fuck that,” Suggs replied. “That iron cunt is meant for the flames.”

Jon had heard enough from these so-called knights. “Tell me, Ser Godry, does it make you feel strong to beat a woman while she’s in chains? And Ser Clayton, does it make you feel like a man to watch?”

Godry’s face reddened, as the yard turned silent. “You have a bold tongue, bastard… but you’re direwolf is no longer here to protect you. I saw to that when I put an arrow through his throat.” Suggs snickered.

Jon could feel his wolfblood rising. He’d been caged up too long, and now he was hungry for a fight. “I believe you have something of mine,” he said, motioning to the sword at Godry’s waist.

The tall knight gave an evil smirk. “What, this thing.” He drew Longclaw from his scabbard, and twisted the blade in the dawn light. The black steel rippled in the glow of the winter sun, throwing shades of silver light across his chest plate. “I told you before, boy. Valyrian swords are for fighting, not playing. Only a true warrior ought to wield it. Any other owner would be an insult to its craft.”

“That we can agree on, but I’m still not clear what you are doing with it.” A few of the other knights sniggered. A crowd was beginning to grow around them.

“Walk away, boy,” Godry whispered. “You may be Stannis’ new pet, but don’t think I won’t gut you where you stand.”

Jon smiled. _That’s right, get angry you sack of wine._ “His grace tells me that my sister has demoted you to _Godry Gooseslayer_.”

Godry edged closer to Jon, and spat at his feet. “No man would dare call me that to my face.”

“Ah, no man…. but what about a _wolf_.” More laughter rose from the practice yard. The squires had stopped their sword-work, and were slowly clearing the field. “I’ll tell you what, Gooseslayer, place Longclaw at my feet, beg forgiveness, and as a favour to King Stannis, I will not humiliate you in front of your men.”

Despite the chill, Godry’s face had grown red with rage. _“Bastard,”_ he spluttered. “Pick up a sword and answer for your insolence.”

Jon turned to the armoury. “Devan! _My sword!_ ” The timid squire rushed over to Jon and presented the hilt of a glimmering longsword. He drew the blade with a slow _shuung_ , and moved swiftly to the centre of the yard. Jon swung the blade from side to side, letting the blood rush to his limbs. It had been ages since he’d fought, but he was too angry to care.

The tall knight regarded Jon menacingly, before unhooking his chest plate, and casting it to the ground. “I’ll not have it said I thrashed you with an advantage.”

“Words are wind, ser. Put up my steel.”

“You all heard the boy,” Godry declared to the other knights. “He wants to fight me. It’s not my fault if he loses an arm.”

The two men circled each, their weapons raised. Jon edged forward slowly, his sword extended in a defensive position. Godry began the fight with a furious slash to the chest. Jon caught the blow, but was jolted back by the impact. Godry advanced on him quickly, delivering a swift upswing to the waist. Jon parried, but was once again pushed rearward. Godry struck a third time, a forth, a fifth, a sixth. Jon deflected each attempt, but his arms were beginning to ache from the shocks. _Gods he is strong._ He wanted to strike back, but he maintained his defence.

“Fight me, _coward_ ,” Ser Godry roared, launching another thunderous overhand into Jon’s sword.

“The boy has milkwater in his veins,” Ser Clayton cackled. Godry, frustrated, changed positions, delivering a flurry of stabs at Jon’s torso, but they were blocked as well. More of the knights booed and hissed, calling Jon a weakling and a craven. _Not yet,_ Jon told himself. _Let him drain his anger. Let him drain his strength._

Godry hacked and hammered at Jon, pushing him further and further from the centre of the field. Sparks rose as blade kissed blade. Jon’s longsword was castle-forged, but even it was beginning to chip and rattle against the might of Valyrian steel. He felt his arms grow heavy and his feet grow clumsy.

Ser Godry’s fought desperately to break through Jon’s defences, and his breathing was getting deeper and deeper. The morning snowfall was turning the field moist and muddy. Jon feared his footing may give out at any moment. _It’s either now or never,_ he told himself.

He mocked Ser Godry with a wide grin. The knight charged at him, aiming an overhand right at Jon’s head, but rather than parry, Jon ducked the attack completely. Godry stumbled forward from his own momentum, as Jon looped around him, and delivered a shallow slice across the back of his knee. Ser Godry cried out in pain.

The knight spun to meet Jon. A red stain was growing beneath his breeches, and he strode towards Jon with a slight limp. “Give up?” Jon sneered. Ser Godry charged again, arcing Longclaw in a long, frantic slice. Jon smashed the blow aside, and responded with red cut across Godry’s cheek. Jon pressed his advantage, with another thrust. Godry caught the attack an inch from his torso, but Jon was ready with an overhand, then an upswing, then another sideslash.

Now Jon was on the offensive, pummelling the Giantslayer with vicious blows. Ser Godry was blocking and ducking like a mad thing, with each attack landing closer and closer to his body. A puddle was forming in the centre of the yard, and Jon hammered his opponent towards it.

While the knight’s breathing grew heavy, Jon was feeling strong and alive. _Why have I waited so long to pick up a sword?_ Far from milkwater, his blood burned like fire beneath his skin. _This is what it felt like to hunt,_ he reminisced. _Running through the Wolfswood, edging closer and closer to my prey… sinking my teeth into writhing fresh… and feeling the blood pour into my mouth, hot and sticky with fear…_

Ser Godry’s left foot sank into the icy puddle with a squelch, and his arms flailed to keep him upright. Jon brought his sword down in a swift, lethal arc. Godry shoved his blade against it with a bone-jarring _clang_ , but the force of the attack sent him backwards into the puddle.

 _And there it is,_ Jon mused, his blood roaring with the thrill of the kill. He sent the tip his sword hard across Ser Godry’s hand, disarming the knight in a spray of blood and bone. Godry roared with pain as Longclaw went spinning across the yard. He clutched his mangled stump of a hand, as two bloody fingers lay limp beside him.

Jon knelt beside his fallen foe. “Let’s see you slay a giant now,” he whispered darkly. Jon threw his cracked longsword to the ground in disgust, and walked over to where Longclaw lay. He picked up the Valyrian sword, its blade still as sharp and shiny as the day Commander Mormont had gifted it to him. It felt good to hold it once more.

Several squires had rushed across the yard to the groaning Ser Godry. “Bag the fingers,” one of them was saying. “Maester Lorrik may be able to re-attach them.”

 _I should probably get going before the King hears of this duel._ Jon sheathed Longclaw and motioned towards Ser Devan. “Get the garron’s saddled and ready,” he told his young squire. “And fetch me some hot breakfast. We ride out within the hour.”

***

The gates of Winterfell gave a laboured groan as they were wheeled open by the men on the ramparts. The winter sun streamed into the castle yard, and Jon kicked his garron into a canter. A column of Baratheon soldiers, Manderly knights and Ironborn prisoners followed him into the bracing cold that stirred beyond the walls. The white fields of the North opened up before them, a mist of snowflakes raining down upon it. The ice seemed to shimmer and dance in the rising sun, as the sky blushed a gorgeous shade of pink. _Winter has its own beauty,_ Jon thought. _Though we’ll be cursing it soon enough._

“Lord Snow,” a woman’s voice called from behind him. He turned his head to see Lady Melisandre riding along beside the column. A red cloak hung about her shoulders, and her hair flickered like flame against the snow. He slowed his garron to a light trot.

“Come to see me off, your grace,” he said, trying to sound cheerful.

“Come to join you,” she replied, smiling. “The King has asked Ser Manderly’s knights to escort me to White Harbor. He feels that Winterfell is no longer a safe place for his precious Queen…”

That surprised Jon, though he saw some sense in it. “So you’re to seek the royal comforts of the Merman’s Court.”

She slowed her horse as it sidled up alongside Jon’s. “Until this northern threat is dealt with.”

“That may take longer than you think, you grace.”

She nodded. “The war between ice and fire has raged for thousands of years. It will rage for thousands more.”

“That’s disconcerting.” Jon did not doubt that it was Melisandre herself who’d decided to travel to White Harbor. _What is she planning? Does she want me to take her to the Wall? To Hardhome?_

 “R’hllor has bless us with your presence, my Queen,” Ser Devan piped in. “Your fires shall surely warm us through the cold nights ahead.” The Queen nodded graciously.

They rode for a while longer, before Jon turned to have one last look at Winterfell. From this distance, the castle was a sad old thing. The grey towers seemed to hunch, like feeble men ready to keel over. It looked so weak, so fragile. But it wasn’t weak. It wasn’t fragile. It was Winterfell, and its roots went deep. It had stood since the beginning of time, and would still be standing at the end. It was House Stark. It was the North.

Suddenly, Jon noticed small, black dots flittering out of the towers. There were only a few at first, tiny things dissolving into the fog, but more came soon after. Scores, dozens, hundreds poured out. They filled the sky, blotted out the sun. They rose, and spun, and mingled like sprites, before racing off into the horizon. They cawed loudly as they flew overhead, and Jon soon realised what they were. They were ravens, off to every corner of Westeros, to proclaim the realm under attack, to command every noble house of the Seven Kingdoms to cast down their banners, pick up their arms, and defend the lands of the Setting Sun.

 _Dark wings, dark words,_ Jon mused. Doubtless, most of the southern lords would laugh at Stannis, mock the Night’s Watch, and cast the letter into their bronze hearths. But maybe one or two would listen. Maybe help would march up the Neck, or sail up the coast, a few honourable men, those who remembered their ancient vows, _and their ancient foe._

 _Winter is come, and the dead come with it,_ Mormont had said once. Jon patted Longclaw, turned his back to Winterfell, and urged his garron on. _The Wall is my place. My post,_ he told himself. _There is nothing left for me here._ But then he thought of Arya… the last of his pack. _Watch or not, I will see her again. Even if I have to slay the Great Other himself, I will see her again…_

 _“Snow!”_ a voice called from above. Jon felt feathers flutter by his ears, and a set of talons lightly prick his neck. He turned to see the raven perched on his shoulder. It was Mormont’s raven, the one Arya had used to deliver her message from Hurrik’s Perch.

“Hello,” Jon said. “Are you coming as well?”

 _“Hello!”_ the bird replied, bobbing its head. _“Hello! Hello!”_


	6. Jon and Melisandre sail North

** CHAPTER 6 **

**Jon and Melisandre sail North**

Jon Snow gazed into the murky waters of the Shivering Sea. A dark silhouette peered back at him, its eyes glowing in the moonlight. _Wolf eyes_ , he thought. He could feel Ghost stirring inside him. The full moon was making his wolfblood run hot and fast, and Jon doubted he would get much sleep this night.

Jon liked the sea better after nightfall. During the day, the decks of the _Seawolf_ were crawling with sailors and soldiers, cursing and laughing, while the cabins rocked to and fro. Waves would crash against the bow, dousing them in saltwater, as bitter winds whipped at their brows.

 _But after nightfall…_ silence descended over the ship, and the icy waters grew calm. The endless ocean was transformed into a pool of black starlight, and alone, Jon felt as though he was soaring through the sky, on the wings of a wooden dragon.

He leaned further and further across the railing, letting the salt air fill his lungs. Brine reached up to kiss his face. Nervous as he’d been the day they’d set sail from White Harbor, Jon could not deny there was something beautiful about the ocean, something seductive and terrifying. It was their friend and their foe, and life seemed so fragile out here… so fleeting… _like embers against the snow…_

“Don’t fall in,” a voice called from behind. Jon straightened his back, and turned his head. A figure was sauntering towards him, her plated boots clacking against the decks. “Qarl will have to tow you the rest of the way.” Asha Greyjoy gave a smirk, and leaned beside him on the railing.

“Captain Asha,” Jon nodded. “Can’t sleep either?”

“Don’t want to.” Her eyes fell upon the black horizon. “I’ve spent enough time in dark cramped spaces. I’d sooner breathe the free air… Before you decide to throw me back in a dungeon.” Jon had brought five of the Ironborn prisoners with him, one for each of the trading galleys supplied by Ser Marlon. They had remained in heavy chains from Winterfell to White Harbor, but once they’d set sail, Jon had removed the links around their hands, lengthened the shackles about their feet, and given them each a ship to captain safely along the coast. Asha produced a skin of wine from her coat, took a swig, and offered it to Jon. “Fancy a nightcap?”

He shook his head. _Now who gave her that? And what did she use to pay for it?_ Six days into their voyage, and already she was testing his leniency.

“Suit yourself,” she replied, taking another swig. A vein of dark liquid dribbled down her mouth and around the curve of her neck. It was amazing how much healthier she looked now than when she’d been locked in the dungeons. _The sea air agrees with her._

“How fares our passage?” He inquired, his eyes still distracted by the shimmering waters.

“Smooth sailing so far. We’re making good time. You’re Red Queen must have put a hex on the Storm God.”

“She’s your queen too,” Jon reminded her. Less than an hour ago, Melisandre had performed her evening prayers on the lower decks, and the air had been filled with the pious chanting of her fervent followers. The present silence was a welcome refrain.

“I thought she was only travelling with us as far as White Harbor.”

 _So did I,_ thought Jon, though it had hardly surprised him to find the Queen and her attendants aboard _Seawolf_ , the day they set sail. _This is my fight as much as it is yours,_ she had told Jon. _Aye,_ Jon had replied, _but it is me who will incur the King’s wrath should harm befall you._ He turned to Asha, giving her a measured look. “It is not for me to say where Her Grace can and can’t travel.”

Asha nodded. “She’s a comely young creature, _our Queen_.” She teased Jon with a smile. “I wonder whose cabin she’s been warming these long, cold nights.”

Jon ground his teeth. _This one is like to get herself killed._ “I would not repeat that in the presence of Baratheon soldiers, my lady.”

Asha shrugged. “Forgive, my lord, but I traded in my courtly courtesies for a throwing axe.”

“Well, now you’ve traded in both for a set of shackles. Be mindful I don’t return your wrist restraints as well.” They stood in silence for a few moments, watching the black currents pass them by. Every now and then, Asha would take a swig of wine. “How far til we reach Karhold?” Jon said at last.

“A fortnight, maybe. Ten days, if this weather holds… but it won’t. Sooner or later, the Storm God will rear his vengeful head.”

 _She is not wrong,_ Jon thought grimly. Storms were less frequent in the winter, but far more cruel. If one approached, they would need to drop anchor until it passed. “Well, goodnight, my lady,” he said at last. He turned to leave, but Asha stopped him with her hand.

Her smile had vanished. “Lord Snow,” she said softly. “I… I just wanted to say… That business at Winterfell, with Theon and your brothers…” Jon bristled at the mention of Theon Greyjoy. “You know I had _nothing_ to do with that. That is, I _begged_ him to abandon the castle, but… _He was too far gone…_ Anyway, I’m so sorry for what happened.”

 _Sorry,_ Jon thought angrily. _The only sorrow I feel is not slaying the Turncloak myself._ But there was no point cursing the past. That way led madness. “Justice found Theon Greyjoy,” Jon managed at last. “There’s naught else needs to be said.”

Asha cast her eyes towards the deck. The wine and chill had turned her cheeks bright red. “I know,” she mumbled. “I was there the day Stannis executed him… over the heart tree…” Jon nodded stiffly, and kept moving.

 _What did happen at Winterfell?_ Jon found himself thinking as he walked. _All those years ago._ They’d told him Bran and Rickon had been killed, their heads skewered upon the gates of Winterfell. But it had been Summer who’d rescued him at Queenscrown. Jon was certain of it. Stranger still, he would often see Bran in his dreams, his tiny voice muffled by fog and fury, his words just beyond hearing. _If only I could remember,_ Jon vexed, as he made his way along the vacant galley. He could feel a headache fermenting. _I need to speak with Melisandre. I’ve put this off for far too long._

But by the time Jon reached his cabin, his ache had grown into a dry, pulsing thud, and he decided to put it off for another day.

 _“Corn!”_ a familiar voice squawked as Jon entered his cabin.

“How much corn can one raven eat?” he replied with a weary smile.

 _“King!”_ the bird insisted.

“I’m out of those as well.” Jon took off his boots and cloak, and lit a small lantern by his bed. He sat down with a grunt, and set to thawing his hands by the curling flames. _Gods, I feel like an old man._ Jon was not yet twenty, but winter was taking its toll. The chill had crept into his bones, and would not creep out.

 _I am too restless to sleep,_ Jon lamented. He glanced at the stack of curling grey sea charts on his desk. _But too tired to work._ So far, storms had not marred their voyage, but he knew the black clouds would be upon them soon enough, and then he would regret leaving Winterfell. Jon had no taste for sea-faring. The greensickness had only lasted a day or two, but the dread lingered. The sea was wild and treacherous. It would just as soon swallow them, as carry them to shore. Jon Snow was made for flatlands and warhorses, for weathered forts and hard-stone walls.

 _I should have insisted I ride to the western hills. I should be by Arya’s side._ But he knew Stannis had the right of it. Victory at Hurrik’s Perch might give them time, some breathing room to consolidate their forces, but a fresh attack would follow swiftly. Winter had fallen heavy upon the world, and it gave strength to their enemy. _The Wall must be held, above all,_ and travelling to East Watch by land would have taken thrice as long.

Jon’s heart stung at the thought of his little sister. _She will be okay,_ he assured himself. _Mance will protect her, and Stannis swore to have her safely back in Winterfell._ He prayed it was no lie. He prayed to the old gods and the new. _But what of this fire god?_ He pondered nervously. Even Jon could not deny the power of R’hllor. He was living proof of that. Melisandre had told him that only a sacrifice to the Lord of Light would ensure safe passage to East Watch… _and beyond._ _“There is power in King’s blood,”_ she had assured him. _“I am pleased you brought the Greyjoy girl. Her blood runs hot.”_

Jon gazed into the curling flames and shivered. “Where am I going?” he whispered, but neither the fire nor the darkness offered an answer.

***

The next morning, Jon emerged from his cabin to a brisk westerly gale. Asha was shouting orders at the crew, as the oarsmen struggled to navigate the choppy waters. The chill gnashed angrily at Jon’s face, and he pulled his black cloak tight against the chest. He scanned the horizon. Mercifully, the sky remained clear. Only grey wisps of cloud were visible, and not the thick, dark churning kind he’d learned to fear.

Jon made his way down the centre of the galley, to the lower decks, where Queen Melisandre was reciting her morning prayers. _“Lord of Light!”_ she exclaimed with her accustomed intensity. _“Guide us with a swift a voyage… and protect us from winter’s cruel breath... We are but humble servants… on the currents of light and shadow…”_

Twenty or thirty men surrounded the Red Queen. They were on their knees as Jon descended the wooden walkway, but soon enough they were afoot, with their hands raised to the heavens. _“Lord of Light guide us!”_ They chanted. _“For the night is dark and full of terrors!”_

Watching her sermon, it was hard for Jon to disagree with Lady Greyjoy’s assessment. The queen was indeed a beautiful creature. She was soft-skinned and full-bodied, with hair that danced like fire in the wind, and eyes that shone red through the cold mists. As she raised her hands, her red skirts billowed. The fabric hugged the curves of her hips, and Jon felt his wolfblood stirring. _She is kissed by fire,_ he mused. _Like Ygritte._ The queen raised her head, and caught Jon’s gaze. She gave a wry smile. Jon blushed, and gave an awkward nod. _Can she hear my thoughts?_

As the men dispersed and returned to their duties, Jon approached the queen. “Your grace, might I have a word?”

“Of course, Lord Snow,” she replied in her throaty voice. “I have been expecting you.”

 _Why does that not surprise me?_ “Back in Winterfell, in the Godswood, you offered me some help… in recovering some of my memories.” The words sounded absurd coming out of his mouth, and he shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I was just wondering if that offer still stood?”

“Of course,” she said, nodding slowly. “Shall we find somewhere more private?” Without waiting for an answer, the queen slipped her arm around Jon’s, and lead him back towards the upper decks. _Towards her cabin,_ he realised.

Jon could feel the warmth of her body as they walked. He could also feel the glares of her men. _Don’t get to close bastard boy,_ they seemed to suggest.

Melisandre’s cabin smelt of lavender and smoke, and a strange spice that Jon could not place. Devan looked up as they entered. He was feeding sticks of bark to the queen’s hearth, which had to be kept ablaze day and night. “Have a seat,” Melisandre gestured to a brittle chair in the corner. “I’ll be with you shortly.” She strode over to Devan and whispered in his ear. The boy nodded, and swiftly exited the room, offering Jon a curt nod on his way out. “You’ve been sleeping better?” The queen queried, prodding at the flames with a poker.

Smoke wafted out, and began to pool along the scarred ceiling. “Yes,” Jon replied, coughing. “But I suppose you already know that.” His eyes scanned the room. To his left was an old bookshelf filled with bottles of coloured liquid, and flasks of ground leaves. Several small mirrors adorned the walls of the cabin, throwing echoes of light across the floor and ceiling. The queen’s bed was a large feather mattress, with silk red sheets that looked as though they’d never been disturbed.

When Melisandre was satisfied with the hearth, she plucked a bottle of purple liquid from her shelf, and sat down in the chair facing Jon. “I am surprised it took you so long to seek my talents, Lord Snow. I hope you know my door is always open.”

Jon sighed. “I’m not sure that is such a good policy, your grace. The soldiers Stannis has provided me are very protective of you. And my duel with Ser Godry won me no friends.”

“That is true,” she allowed. “But it won you respect, and a healthy dose of fear. You mustn’t forget, Lord Snow, these men are not here for your friendship. They are here for your orders.” _Whether they like it or not,_ went unsaid. She studied Jon carefully. “You have it in you to be a great leader, Jon, but you must not neglect the trappings of power… Never forget Bowen Marsh.” _For the Watch!_ Jon recalled bitterly. _She is right,_ he realised. _Better to be hated and obeyed, than loved and betrayed._

Melisandre popped the cork off her strange flagon, and poured the misty liquid into a bronze goblet sitting on her table. She then handed the drink to Jon. “What is this?” he said, eying the liquid suspiciously.

“Only wine,” she laughed. “An old spirit from the cellars of Qarth. It is made from the salt-berries that sprout along the shores of the Jade Sea.” Jon took a nervous sip. It was very heavy, and tasted of no berry he had ever eaten, though it was flavoursome enough.

Melisandre reached into her robes and produced a small satchel of cloth. She opened it carefully, revealing a mound of ash-white seedlings. She leaned forward and emptied the contents into Jon’s cup. The purple wine swallowed the seedlings with a bubbly hiss. A milky red now curdled the drink. A foul smell drifted into the air, mingling with the smoke.

The Queen reached forward, and laid her hands over Jon’s, pressing them against the sides of the goblet. She brought the drink to her lips, drinking deep, and then pushed the cup towards Jon, motioning for him to do the same.

“What are you doing?” he said, as the cold bronze touched his mouth.

“It is alright, Lord Snow. This will help you relax… Help you open your mind…” As she spoke, he noticed that her lips had turned an eerie blue.

The smell was awful, like rotting flesh. He held the cup firmly, refusing to give. _What if it’s poison,_ he suddenly thought. But that was absurd. _She’s had half a hundred chances to kill me. Why would she choose this moment?_

“Trust me,” he heard her whisper, and slowly released his grip. The bubbling liquid poured into his mouth, burning like sulphur as it sloshed down his throat.  He felt like retching, but somehow he continued to swallow and swallow and swallow, until suddenly the cup was empty. He coughed and spluttered, his mind reeling from the fumes. The smell of rotting flesh hung rancid in the air, and his vision begun to blur.

“What have you done to me?” He heard himself mutter. Jon fell from the chair, scrambling against the hard wood. The smoke seemed so thick. It was closing in on him, clawing at him. He reached for his dirk. Melisandre knelt beside him, and took his hands in hers.

“Do not be afraid,” she whispered gently, and his breathing slowed. He felt her warm fingertips press against his temples. “Look into the flames, Jon Snow. Free yourself of fear, and gaze into your past life.”

Jon’s eye-line shifted hazily to the yellow fire. The flames grew bright and wild, darkening the rest of the room. The longer he stared the larger they seemed. They lashed and hissed at him. “Snow,” they seemed to whisper, as strange images began to form.

“Oh R’hllor,” Melisandre sung, her words soft and deep. “Grant us a vision of your divine purpose. Show this warrior of light a vision of his destiny.” _Snow,_ the flames murmured again. _Jon Snow…_

Jon seemed to melt, as the flames and the light and the smoke washed over him. His thoughts flowed back to Ghost, and he felt himself peering through the wolf’s eyes as he had lain upon the burning pyre. More memories rushed back into his mind, stronger than he had ever been able to recall. He remembered the cold floor of Winterfell’s dungeon, and the sounds of his sister’s sobs.

“What do you see?” Melisandre’s voice echoed.

“Wolves,” he murmered. _My wolves._ His heart ached with sorrow.

“And what else?” He could still see Melisandre standing over him, her eyes red with flame, peering deeper and deeper and deeper. He could feel her heat surging through him now, her fingers dancing across his thoughts. A strange chanting was reverberating from her soft red lips.

“I can’t remember,” Jon protested meekly. It hurt to see Ghost and Nymeria alive again, but he kept going, further and further back. His memory flowed deep now, and he saw Stannis’ soldiers dragging him through the snow, beating him as he thrashed and growled beneath the iron links. The winter snow was all around them, lashing at their skin and eyes. It was blinding, burning. Then it was just Ghost and Nymeria, alone beneath a tree of corpses.

“And what else?” The queen repeated. Her voice was tiny now, as if far away.

The flames rose before Jon, fierce and immense. “A tree,” he managed at last. “A Weirwood tree. There’s a man… inside the tree. He is very old… and his limbs are bound by vines.” Jon tried to close his eyes, or look away, but the flames held his gaze firmly in place. “There are tiny creatures around him… Children I think, though they seem even older than he is. I think the man is dying. The children are giving him water, and dabbing at his face… There’s also a boy…” Jon’s eyes widened in awe, as the boy’s face came into focus. “No… it can’t be.”

“Who is the boy?”

“He is dead… He is burned and buried.”

“Who is the boy?!” Melisandre repeated, only this time her voice screamed inside Jon’s head.

“It’s Bran,” he gasped. The flames surged around Jon, burning him, blinding him, deafening him. “It’s my little brother…”

Bran looked up at Jon, his worried face framed by tongues of savage flame. “Jon!” he cried. “Time is running out. The dead things are killing everything. The _dark one_ has risen in the North. You must get to Hardhome. You must find _the sword of the evening_ … else the long night will never end!”

The flames roared white hot, then twisted orange, then blue, until finally exploding in a puff of ash and soot that threw Jon across the room. His head screamed with pain. His face felt as though it were on fire. But slowly the noise and fury faded, until all he could hear was his panting.

The room slowly came back into focus. The fire had gone out, leaving only a darkened crater in its wake. Queen Melisandre lay on the floor by her toppled shelves. She was also panting heavily, and her red dress was singed black along the hem.

“The _sword of the evening_ …” she whispered. “The prophecy…” She looked up at Jon. “Have I been wrong this whole time?” She looked awestruck, frightened even.

“Bran is alive,” Jon said, his mind racing. It hadn’t been a dream. He had seen Bran. He had seen his little brother, after all these years… alive. He rose from cabin floor, and felt a rush of blood through his body. “He must be in hiding… north of the Wall. But where? Hardhome? The Frostfangs? And who was that tree man?” Whatever small joy Jon might have felt was now compounded by confusion and worry.

“I have seen him before,” Melisandre said, her face still drenched in shock. “Only twice… while at Castle Black. I saw him… and that little wolf boy… in my flames. I’d thought they were agents of the enemy… but they speak of a sword to slay the Others, _to slay the darkness._ Surely it must be Lightbringer.”

Jon offered the queen his hand. She grasped it tightly, and he hoisted her to her feet. “I thought Lightbringer belonged to Stannis,” he said.

“So did I…” she murmured. “How could I have been so wrong? I asked R’hllor for a vision of Azor Ahai… and he showed me Stannis. I was certain… _Certain._ ” She turned to Jon now, her eyes wide and red. “And all this time…” She placed a blackened hand against Jon’s cheek.

Jon did not recoil, nor push her away. He returned the gaze, not daring to speak. His breathing slowed, and the cabin fell silent, save for the creaking floorboards. Something had awoken inside Jon—the flames, the wolfblood, the vision of Bran—they all seemed to melt away at the warmth of her palm. Jon could not remember the last time he had felt so calm, or seen something so lovely. He drew closer to Melisandre, his heart pounding, all reason and purpose deserting his mind. Only the desire remained, a swelling in his heart, a burning in his veins, like weeping fire.

Ghost stirred inside him, and he could smell her all at once, from the flowery fragrance in her hair, to the wine on her tongue, to the perfume wafting from her chest. Down and down it went, mingling with beads of sweat that clung to her breasts and her belly and her hips, down and down to the wet warmth between her thighs. She was spring, she was life, she was youth, she was everything he never knew he wanted. He edged even closer. Close enough to touch, to taste the softness of her skin. Her eyes widened, her lashes long and curling. Strands of crimson hair danced in the flickering lantern light. Her hand slid around the curve of his neck.

“Naato Sowen Azor,” she whispered in her throaty accent. Her lips shone, they wanted him… _She wanted him…_

And then a flicker of doubt cross Jon’s mind. _What are you doing?_ he grasped with horror. Jon pulled away from Melisandre, averting his eyes. “Forgive me my lady,” he muttered. He snatched up his cloak, and quickly exited the cabin.

The freezing sea air rushed against Jon’s face like a cold hammer of reality. He made his way along the galley in long, angry strides. _Have you lost your wits,_ he scolded himself. _She is your queen. You swore an oath, if not to the Watch, then at least to King Stannis._

Jon returned to his cabin, slammed the door shut, and collapsed onto his bed. As he lay there in silence, his breathing slowly returned to normal. _It was the potion,_ he reasoned, _and the shock of seeing Bran again. It was the flames, and Ghost,_ he argued. He rolled over, and caught the lantern light in his eye line. _But why did she not recoil? … and what did she whisper to me?_ He stood up, and began to pace back and forth, doubts festering in his mind.

There was a short, sharp knock at the door. _Oh gods,_ Jon froze. _She’s followed me to my cabin. Won’t her men love that?_ “I’m feeling ill,” Jon called. “I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

To his surprise, however, it was not Melisandre’s voice that replied. “But you said to tell you when we’d left the Bite,” Asha Greyjoy called. Jon moved swiftly to the door, and wrenched it open. “You don’t look sick,” she said with a smirk.

“We’ve reached Widow’s Watch?” Asha nodded. “Shouldn’t we stop for food and supplies?”

“We can if you want. But we left White Harbor well stocked, and I’d sooner make use of this good weather while it holds.”

“Alright,” Jon said. “It’s your call.” Asha turned to leave. “One more thing,” he said. “Our destination is no longer East Watch.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “But Stannis ordered—”

“We’ll stop at the Wall, of course, and make sure the castle is garrisoned and well manned. But as of now, we set course for Hardhome… the city beyond the Wall.”

She nodded, but her eyes remained uncertain. “It’s your call, Jon Snow.”

“ _Lord_ Snow,” he corrected her, remembering the trappings of power.

***

They made their way along the western coast, their sails filled with icy, crackling winds. Every morning, Asha’s crew would need to thaw the frost that settled along the robes and cloth. Even flags that hung across the bough would grow stiff with frozen brine. There was _Seawolf_ , the largest of the galleys, along with four others – _Icevault, Squidslayer, Merman’s Fury,_ and _Wylla’s Defiance._ Each ship bore sixty men along their arctic passage.

Jon spent as little time above deck as he could, delivering most of his orders through Asha and Devan. He was troubled, and more than a little vexed by the path ahead of him. He had yet to inform the men of his decision to voyage to Hardhome. Most of them would argue against it, and some might call it an act of treason. He knew Melisandre’s voice would sway them, but after their last exchange, he could not bear to meet with her again. Perhaps it was shame, or perhaps it was fear. He could not say. But something strange had transpired between them in her cabin. Jon had seen strange, frightening things in her flames, and heard voices long dead. Was Bran truly alive? Or was it his ghost? Was it merely a memory of his brother, or a distorted vision? At his darkest moments, Jon even wondered whether it was the Others themselves, attempting to taunt and deceive him. In any the case, Jon knew Hardhome held the answers. To what end though, he could not say.

More frustrating than the visions, however, was the yearning that had possessed him. A lust had awoken in Jon, the moment he’d come to, and laid his eyes upon Melisandre. The Queen had seemed different as well, more unsure of herself, frightened even. He’d tried to pass the feeling off as a momentary shock or fatigue. But the desire lingered, all day and into the sleepless night. He dreamed of taking her, of mounting her like a wolf, and feeling her lips on his. He wanted to run his fingers through her long, fiery hair, down the soft curves of her back, and hear her moans braid with his.

Each time they happened to pass one another on the decks, Melisandre would smile at him and leave her sweet scent lingering in the air. And at night, when he watched her kneeling in prayer, he would imagine her naked, glistening with sweat. It shamed and invigorated him all at once. It festered within him like spider, and he knew the hunger would die if he simply stopped feeding it, but he couldn’t… or perhaps he didn’t want to.

 _Has she cast some spell over me?_ Jon would think as he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. _Or is the wolfblood filling me with these savage thoughts._ Surely there were more important things to consider. Every passing moon they moved closer to that frozen shore, where the dead things waited with their spears of ice. And yet the thought that these days may be his last, only strengthened the yearning. _Gods be good, Stannis is my King. He trusts me. How could I betray him like that?_ “She wants it,” a voice whispered deep inside him. “And you want it more.” _I had Ygritte,_ he told himself. _I will not dishonour her by taking another._ But he knew that was folly too. Ygritte would have wanted him to take pleasure where he could find it. Had it been him who died at Castle Black, he’d never have begrudged her spending cold nights in the arms of another. Jon rolled over, and forced himself to sleep.

***

The spires of Karhold twisted out of the pale horizon like daggers of ice. The castle was a grey-stone fortress, frosted with snow, and behind it loomed the blackest storm clouds Jon had ever seen. The winter tempest they dreaded had finally arrived, and Jon thanked the Old Gods and New that they’d reached Karhold in time.

“We’ll drop anchor here!” Jon called from the upper decks, his black cloak billowing in the winds. Mormont’s raven paced back and forth along his shoulder. _“Here! Here!”_ the bird screeched. Asha Greyjoy nodded, and set her crew to work lowering the sails.

Alys Karstark and Signor of Thenn were waiting on the docks as Jon stepped off the ship. He smiled at the couple and nodded. Hoarfrost clung to his beard like a cobweb. He was in no fit state to greet nobility, yet the couple showed him and his men every courtesy.

“King Crow welcome!” the Thenn grunted in his guttural tongue. “Food and shelter for his men.” He clapped his hands, and Karhold guards quickly descended on the docks, to help unload the galleys.

“We have our own food,” Jon replied. “But shelter would be most welcome. It has been a cold voyage.”

Alys hugged Jon and kissed him on the cheek, while her husband offered him a hand-shake that left his finger-bones half crushed. “Nonsense,” Alys replied. “You are half frozen. You all need some hot soup to thaw your bellies.” _Hot soup,_ Jon pined. He would not say no to that.

When the ships had been unloaded, their ragged host of soldiers, sailors and guards made their way up the winding hill to the castle gates. Lady Alys and Jon chatted as they walked.

“Tell me of Winterfell,” she spoke. “They say Stannis is King now.”

“Aye,” Jon replied, shivering. “In the North at least, but no sooner had the Iron Throne been within his grasp, that Castle Black was razed. Now Others and Wights are marching across our lands. I have not seen them with my own eyes, but my sister Arya, Warden of the North, holds the western hills with five-thousand wildlings, mountain men, and Black Brothers. She writes that the Wall from Oakenshield to Queenscrown has been destroyed.”

Alys nodded, absorbing his words. “Stannis’ ravens confirmed as much. He has ordered every lord in Westeros to lay down their arms and ride north to defend the realm.”

“Have any answered?” Jon asked dubiously.

“Every house in the north, great and small, has rallied to Winterfell. Your sister Arya has become a legend in these parts…” She paused for a moment, measuring her words. “But the southrons… The southrons do not remember as we do. They have forgotten the Others, and the Children, and the Long Night…. To them, the Watch is little more than a penal colony. And they bear no love or loyalty towards Stannis.”

 _They will remember soon enough,_ Jon thought bitterly, _when the dead march on their doorsteps._

“We with you King Crow!” the Thenn declared. “We throw these ice devils back into the shadows.”

“I am glad to hear it, my lord, but you would serve the North better by remaining here and fortifying Karhold. If the battle in the mountains goes awry, and Last Hearth falls, then the White Walkers will fall upon you next. You need to gather your forces for the coming war. Take in any and all smallfolk fleeing the invasion, and put them to work garrisoning the castle. We have a better chance of defeating these creatures from upon ramparts and towers, than by facing them in an open field.”

The Thenn was nodding his approval. “King Crow right. My father try to fight them in Frostfangs. But they too strong. Cannot kill them. And they turn our dead against us. We make castle strong. Rain fire on them if they come.”

“Fire will kill the Wights,” Jon agreed. “But only dragonglass can kill the Others themselves. Possibly Valyrian steel, as well.”

“We have some obsidian,” Alys said. “Ever since we returned from Castle Black, I’ve been mining the Grey Cliffs. You and your men are welcome to half of our haul.”

“Glady,” Jon replied, bursting with pride. “Thank you, my lady, my lord.” _Karhold remembers,_ Alys had told him once, on the night of her wedding. Stannis had given Jon two crates of obsidian, shipped over from Dragonstone before it fell to the Tyrell’s, but he could always do with some more. Gods knew how long this war would truly last. _It is good the Watch still has friends. They will need them in the coming months._

Before long they arrived at the grey, faded walls of Karhold. The bronze gates were drawn wide upon, and a small market place had grown around the mouth. Jon and his men marched into the castle yard in sullen process, their heads held low by cold and hunger. But as they entered the great hall, the warm aroma of cooked meat and warm ale filled their mouths. Bowls of soup and chunks of bread had been laid along the tables, and the Baratheon men quickly found a seat and began devouring their meals. The colour gradually returned to their faces, and soon laughter was heard once more.

Jon was given a seat at Lady Alys’ side. He knew it was a place of honour, but he’d sooner have eaten his meal alone by the blazing hearth. He could make out Queen Melisandre a few places to his right. She was offering thanks to R’hllor, and praying for a swift end to the storms. For a moment he could feel her eyes on him, but he dared not look over. Not even for a moment.

Music and mirth filled the hall, as meal after meal was delivered to Jon and his men. “You will spoil us, my lady,” Jon said to Alys. “Too much of this and my soldiers will refuse to leave.”

“So sullen,” Alys smiled sadly. “Not all the world is misery and war, Jon Snow. Let yourself feel warm again, and grow fat on roast boar and red wine, at least for an hour. Besides, so long as this dreadful storm lingers, you have no choice but to accept my hospitality.” Jon allowed himself to smile, and fetched another helping of lamb shanks. He tore at the meat, sucking hungrily at the charred marrow, and savouring the juices as they slid down his throat. When he finished, he took the bones in one hand and reached under the table for Ghost to enjoy. It took a few moments for him to realise that there was no direwolf waiting for him, so he returned the bones to his plate, and pushed them aside.

“What’s wrong,” Lady Alys asked, sensing his discomfort.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I guess I feel lost sometimes. Like a man without a country. My brothers have replaced me, and my king no longer needs me. I’m not a wildling, I’m not a Stark, and now I’m not even a crow.”

“Do not despair, Jon. You’ll soon be back at the Wall, back with your own kind. Most were appalled by Bowen Marsh’s actions, and I’m sure they’ll welcome you with open arms.” _Aye,_ Jon thought, _but do I even want to go back._

Alys placed a hand on his shoulder, and offered him a warm smile. No doubt the girl was only trying to comfort him, but Jon was in no mood to be pitied. He’d had too much wine, too little sleep, and he felt like hitting something. He rose shakily, and offered a curt bow. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lady. It is most welcome. But I am feeling a little light-headed, and am ready to retire.”

She looked a little lost, as if she might have offended him. “Of course, Lord Snow. I’ll have a serving girl escort you to your quarters.”

“No need,” he replied, and departed briskly. Tired though he was Jon knew he would find no sleep tonight. Instead, he made his way back out to the castle yard.

When he had located Karhold’s armory, he drew Longclaw, and began practicing his sword-work against a leather-bound straw-man. As he toiled, the music and cheer of the feast hall wafted into the night air. Jon hacked and hammered for hours, until sweat poured down his face, and froze cold upon his cheeks.

“Where am I going?” a voice whispered in his head. The straw-man gave no answer.

***

Days past and still the storm glowered over Karhold. Savage waves smashed against the hills, driving rivers of mud into the shore. The big Manderly galleys rocked back and forth at anchor. At times Jon feared they might tip over completely, and be swallowed by the tide, but somehow they remained upright. Jon stayed in a chamber near the castle rookery, his sole roommate being Mormont’s boisterous old raven. What little sleep he did manage was consumed by formless, frantic dreams.

On the fifth night since their arrival, Jon was practicing in the armoury, when he heard an uproar outside the castle walls. Men were shouting, and many hooves were beating against the stone-way. Jon sheathed Longclaw, shed his excess armour, and made his way swiftly across the deserted courtyard. He could make out the flicker of Melisandre’s nightfires, just beyond the walls.

“Lord Snow!” a voice called from castle gates. Jon’s hand leapt to his sword hilt as he turned towards the approaching figure. But it was only Devan, red-faced and out of breath.

“What is it?” Jon demanded. “What’s happening?”

“My lord,” the squire panted. “You must come quickly. One of the Ironmen… He tried to escape.” Jon broke into a trot. “The Queen’s men have made a pyre…”

Jon and Devan sprinted across the yard, towards the shouting. As they passed through the open postern, the commotion grew louder and louder.

Outside Karhold’s walls, a massive pyre was raging. Dozens of men surrounded the curling flames, all shouting and arguing with one another. A chained man was being dragged along. It was one of the Ironborn captives, Jon saw. The one they called Qarl the Maid. His face and chest were beaten bloody. The Queen stood silently, her eyes closed, her hands raised to the heavens. She seemed to bathe in the chaos she had created.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jon roared. The soldiers turned, one by one, their glowing eyes searching for the source of his voice. As Jon approached the gathering, their voices died down.

Melisandre opened her eyes and smiled. “Lord Snow. This prisoner attempted to escape your charge. By your own orders he is to be put to death.”

“Fuck your orders!” Qarl cried. “This is unnatural.” One of the soldiers kicked him hard in the thigh, bringing the Ironman to his knees.

 _Why is this happening now?_ Jon cursed. “If what you allege is true, then I will put him to death myself. But he will die a clean death, by the sword, not the flames.” The shouting erupted once again. Men were cursing Jon to his face, spitting at him with fury in their eyes. _These are Queen’s Men,_ he reminded himself. _Their god_ is _fire._

Melisandre’s voice split through the clamour. “The Lord of Light demands this sacrifice. To deny it would incur his wrath…” Her eyes fixed squarely on Jon, shining red with fire. “But to allow it would split this dread storm, and allow us safe passage to the Wall.”

 _How am I supposed to argue with a god?_ Jon thought angrily. _I am losing them,_ he realised, as he watched the faces of the Queen’s Men turn against him.

The other prisoners were being held in a cage nearby. Asha Greyjoy was calling to Jon through the bars. “Please Lord Snow!” she cried. “Spare this man. He has served you loyally, and he comes from noble blood. His family will pay handsomely for his ransom.” Her face was frantic, and wet with tears. “Leave him in the dungeons of Karhold if you want. But please spare him. I beg you!”

Jon turned to Melisandre in mute appeal. “The command is yours, Lord Snow,” was all she said.

Jon looked back at Asha. _Better to be hated and obeyed, than loved and betrayed._ “I’m sorry my lady, but my orders stand. The penalty for desertion is death.” His gaze returned to Melisandre. Her smile filled him with unbearable rage. “Burn him!” Jon heard himself say.

The Queen’s Men cheered, as Qarl the Maid was dragged kicking and screaming onto the pyre. Melisandre began her chants, and Jon watched in horror as fire engulfed the writhing Ironman. His body thrashed about, unable to break through his chains. The flames wrapped around him, blackened his cloak and skin. Jon wanted to turn away, but he forced himself to watch. Gradually the screams died down, and were enveloped by the prayers of Queen’s Men. Asha was weeping in her cage. _She loved him,_ Jon realised with remorse. _And now she hates me._

Suddenly the flames twisted upwards in a flash of blue. The blaze grew and grew and grew, arching up and out like crimson waves. The heat with incredible. He could see men scattering in fear, fleeing away from the pyre as it lashed out at them, but Jon could not move. He was paralysed by the sweltering heat. _Snow!_ the fire roared, pouring towards him in tongues of red and blue.

Jon looked deep into the wild inferno, transfixed by its blinding light. The colours were shifting into strange, familiar shapes. A vision was emerging within the wild flames. He saw a castle, grey and hunched. Its walls were burnt and battered, and smoke rose from its smashed gate like ghosts. Above its crumbling towers fluttered the golden kraken of House Greyjoy, the war-banner of the Ironborn conquers.

 _It’s Winterfell,_ Jon realised, _after Theon had sacked it._ One of spires twisted and fell, exploding in a plume of rock and dust. A monstrous roar echoed across the fields of autumn snow, shaking the scorched trees into powder. Jon’s heart seemed to stop as he watched it emerge, a massive white serpent, scaled from jaw to tail. The beast rose out of Winterfell, sliding on the currents of wind and rain. Enormous, bat-like wings opened up, and beat hard against the castle, sending a rush of dust as it took off into the air. The creature soared into the cloudy sky, its massive body slithering through the howling winds. Its awful white wings stretched out fully, and their girth blotted out the sun, and bathed the earth in an eerie shadow.

The dragon shone like crystal glass, like burning ice, like white Valyrian steel. It rose higher and higher, wheeling against the sky in monstrous arcs. It opened its mouth and let out another savage roar. The sound shook long and hard across the land, and shuddered deep into Jon’s head. He wanted to scream, to claw off his ears, to rake the skin from his face, but he remained standing, watching the vision in silent torment. _Jon Snow,_ it hissed through the flames. _I see you Azor… I feast on your flesh… I drink your soul…_

The ice dragon was flying high now, higher than the Wall, higher than the mountains, higher than the clouds themselves. Far below, the White Walkers fell to their knees, bowing in submission and worship. The dragon opened its mouth, and sent a river of ice towards them… freezing the waters… quelling the fires… and blackening the world.

 _And then…_ The fire was out, and the vision disappeared… and Jon was left standing there, panting and afraid. His eyesight came slowly back into focus, and he could see men running towards the pyre with pales of water. Melisandre was moving towards him in long purposeful strides. Her face was a mask.

Jon turned his back to her, and began to walk the opposite way. His steps grew faster and faster, until he was running beside the walls of Karhold. Rain and mud sloshed up around him, coating his cloak in muck. Thunder cracked as he moved swiftly towards the sleet-soaked hills, all the way down to the empty docks. The Manderly galleys rocked back and forth in the violent winds. Salty water splashed against Jon as he approached. His hands grasped the rope ladder, and with a grunt he hoisted himself up onto the decks of the _Seawolf_.

 _Where are you going_? He thought, desperately, as he sloshed through the inch of brine that had settled over the ship. He could hear footsteps behind him, and a woman’s voice, but he was beyond caring. He opened the door to his cabin, and slammed it shut behind him.

He paced back and forth across his room, his mind pouring over what he had just seen… over what he had just done. His door creaked open again, and a dark figure entered the room.

“Lord Snow!” the Queen’s voice cried. “What happened!? _What did you see?!_ ”

He lunged at her, slamming her against the cabin walls, and drawing a knife to her throat. He was sick of her questions. Sick of her watchful eyes, and knowing glances. Sick of her false smiles, and self-righteous recitations. “Who are you?” he demanded, though the question was directed as much to himself as the queen. “What do you _want_ from me? What _was_ that thing?!”

She breathed deep, her eyes wide with fear. “Lord Snow… you forget yourself. I am your Queen… Rightful queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men.”

“Who are you, _truly_ ,” Jon said again, his voice lower. “What _was_ that thing?” A tear rolled down her cheek. _She is frightened,_ Jon realised.

“I am the High Priestess,” she managed at last, “to the Lord of Light.”

“I don’t _care_ about that.” Jon pressed the blade lightly against her skin. His fingers tightened now, leaving just enough room for her to answer. His heart was pounding in his ears. “Who… are… _you_?” he whispered.

Melisandre’s hair was soaking wet, and rainwater slid down her face in fragile veins. She was breathing hard now, shivering from the cold, and her eyes were watery. Jon had never seen her this way. _So vulnerable,_ he thought. _So beautiful._ A pang of sympathy ran through him, and he loosened his grip.

She reached up, and took his hand in hers. “My name was Melony,” she replied in a hoarse whisper. “Until… until…” She blinked back tears. Jon released her and drew away, ashamed. The Queen rubbed her neck. “Until my mother sold me to the Red Priests… _Melony… lot seven…_ ” She staggered over to Jon’s desk, and fell into a seat, shaking.

Jon quickly undid his cloak and threw it over her shoulders. “I learned the ways of light and shadow as a child. I learned to read the flames, and to glimpse the path R’hllor had laid out for me.” She seemed to not be able to stop now.

Jon lit a lantern and placed it on the table. He then drew a second chair over, and sat beside her. “On my twelfth name day,” the queen continued. “I had a vision that Azor Ahai would be reborn within my lifetime. And that only he could conquer the darkness that had arisen in the north. I travelled all along the Jade Sea in search of him, through Slaver’s Bay, and across the Smoking Sea, all the way to the Free Cities of the west.”

Jon poured two glasses of wine, and handed one to Melisandre. She drank deep, and her trembling hands seemed to relax . “Then, one day, while I was visiting the water gardens of Braavos, I saw in my fires that the Champion of Light dwelled in Westeros… and that he was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

“Stannis Baratheon,” Jon muttered, taking a sip of wine.

“I was certain,” the queen replied. “But perhaps the Lord of Light had always meant to lead me to you… Jon Snow.” Jon gazed at her, their eyes meeting in the flickering shadows. “You were under my nose this whole time, Jon…” She quaffed the last of her cup, and edged closer to him, placing a hand on his thigh. “You are the _prince who was promised_. You are the Warrior of Light.”

“Me?” Jon stammered. “I am no _prince_.”

“Oh, but you are. ‘The child of dragons and wolves’ the tree man called you, ‘the fruit of ice and fire.’ R’hllor has chosen you to be his instrument in the war against the Others. Your weapon, Lightbringer, awaits you in Hardhome. The sword was made from a falling star, and tempered by the doom of a city. And for the past six-hundred years it has awaited your coming. Now you must claim it from the ruins of that city, and raise it in battle against the Lord of Ice and Shadow.”

 _I am the sword in the darkness,_ Jon recited in his mind. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men._ “You asked me what I saw,” he said. Melisandre nodded slowly. “I saw… a _dragon_ … made of ice. It rose out of the ruins of Winterfell, and flew north… where the Others bowed to it like a god.” He shook his head, and gulped the last of his wine. “Is that… is that the Lord of Ice and Shadow you speak of… the White God that Bowen Marsh was enslaved by…”

“He is the enemy,” she replied after a moment. “And we will defeat him together.” Melisandre rose then, her eyes still trained on Jon, wide and unblinking. She let his black cloak fall to the floor, and leaned over him. Her wet gown clung to her body. He could feel her damp hair against his cheeks. “Naato Sowen Azor,” she whispered in a hot breath.

“What does that mean?” Jon asked, though somehow he though he knew.

Melisandre slid her arms around his neck, and drew her lips close to his. “Take me, my prince.” And he did…

Their lips came together hungrily, as the storm raged above their heads. They kissed for what seemed like hours, until Jon slid his hands inside her red gown, and felt the warm curves of her body. His fingertips worked their way downwards, guided by some beastly desire. She let out a gentle moan, and Jon felt the longing in her lips. Panic and excitement rushed through him all at once, and everything that plagued his mind—Stannis, Winterfell, Arya, Hardhome—they all seemed to melt away like snow in the springtime.

The tiny cabin crashed back and forth in the churning waves, as Jon and Melony embraced one another. And by morning, the clouds had parted…


	7. Jon at Eastwatch

** CHAPTER 7 **

**Jon at Eastwatch**

Jon Snow peered through his cabin window, and watched the lime-stone towers of Eastwatch rise from the sea. Thick clouds choked the pale sky, and biting winds howled through their haggard sails. But thus far, they had eluded the winter storms. _The Red God was appeased,_ he mused. _Though at what cost…?_

“We made it,” Jon murmured, his eyes still fixed on the castle, as though it might vanish if he dared look away.

“Of course,” Melisandre’s sultry voice replied. “R’hllor shines his light on those who pay him homage.” The Red Queen stirred behind him, her lithe silhouette shifting across the cabin walls. “I cannot speak for our voyage beyond the Wall, though. For that is the realm of the Great Other, whose power grows with each passing moon.”

Nervous, Jon fingered the peeling yellow paint along the windowsill. _This is getting too risky,_ a voice fretted in his head. As the pleasure of their moonlit frolic faded, the guilt returned, like a confused, angry dog, lurking on the edges of his conscience. “Your grace… this is the eighth night in a row you’ve spent in my cabin.”

“It is,” she purred.

“Well? What have you been telling your men about our little midnight meetings?”

“The truth,” she declared in a throaty laugh. “That you have accepted R’hllor into your heart. And that I am instructing you in the ways of light and flame.”

 _Among other things,_ the voice chimed again. “But it’s wrong,” he muttered. “Stannis trusts me. How can I betray him like this? _How can you?_ ”

Her tone grew defensive now. “I have done all I can to restore Stannis Baratheon to power. He has come a long way since his defeat on the Blackwater, and in uniting the North, has played a vital role in the coming war… But I see now that he is _not_ the Lord’s Chosen… You are, and I must do all I can to aide you in your sacred mission.”

“Including taking me into your bed?”

“If you so desire.” Jon winced at that. Sensing his discomfort, she continued, “My lord, you must set aside such hesitations. You are a Prince of Fire, a Warrior of Light. Stannis should be bowing to you… Do not forget the trappings of power. The Great Other preys upon such frailties of the spirit.”

“ _The Great Other_ ,” Jon repeated. He turned his head to look at her. The Queen was coiled beneath white silk sheets, her long, red hair tangled across naked shoulders. Beads of sweat still clung to her flushed chest. “And is that what I saw in the flames that night… that great serpent, with scales of hoarfrost, and wings that blackened the earth?”

Her expression was difficult to read, yet Jon glimpsed uneasiness in her eyes. For all the fervour she lavished upon R’hllor, Melisandre seemed strangely guarded about discussing the _enemy_. “I had assumed you were loath to speak of that vision. You haven’t mentioned it since the night we left Karhold.”

 _Since the night we first made love,_ Jon reflected pensively. “Do you know what it was or not?” His gaze returned to the white-capped horizon outside his window.

Silence descended over the cabin, and for a while, all Jon could hear was the distant crashes of waves against the bough. “There are stories of such a beast,” she began in a hushed tone. “The sacred scrolls speak of a white serpent, far older and mightier than any Valyrian dragon, but rather than fire… it breathed _ice_.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Some have dedicated their lives to studying the nature of the enemy, though it is rarely spoken of outside the sanctuary of our temples.” She was beginning to shiver. Jon closed the window, pulled a lantern from his desk, and sat down beside her on the bed. Somehow, he always felt warmer in her presence. “It’s alright,” he said, wrapping his arm around her. “Go on.”

She nodded, her gaze distracted by the flickering flame. Fire always seemed to embolden her. “‘Soul-eater’ the old Ghiscari tapestries named him, for his coming heralded the blackest winter in over a thousand years.”

“You speak of the Long Night?” Jon probed.

“That is what you Westerosi call it,” she replied, touching the red ruby at her throat. “That was the first time they appeared. They marched from the Far North, and fell hard upon the ancient tribes, shattering their bronze shields beneath spears of ice.”

“You mean the Others?” Jon breathed, but she didn’t seem to hear him.

“One by one, towns and castles of the First Men were sacked, and their dead turned into walking slaves. As the enemy journeyed south, the dread beast flew above them. He darkened the skies to give them passage, and froze the rivers and seas. Cold death rained down from above, and whole generations were born, and lived, and died: all in darkness. Each man would pray for a dawn that would never come, for the Old Gods were too weak.” Melisandre’s eyes were flickering red now, but she continued all the same, as if in a trance.

“The ice dragon lead his host to every corner of the earth, and he was feared and despised by all, for he would delight in feeding on the bodies of young maidens and children, and making their father’s watch as he defiled them. It is said his breath was so cold it would freeze the blood of men where they stood, and entire armies were reduced to hordes of glass statues locked in perpetual combat… monuments to the dragon’s cruelty.

“The blood of men began to dwindle, and soon kings and peasants alike were forced to hide in caves, and swamps, and beneath hills. But then, when all hope seemed lost, when the fires of humanity had almost been extinguished forever, the Lord of Light sent forth his champion.

“With Lightbringer in hand, Azor Ahai rallied the kingdoms of men, and lead a great charge against the Others. He drove them back across the Narrow Sea, and into the frozen north from whence they came. With his five most fierce captains, Azor ascended the Mountains of Wyrm, to challenge the ice dragon in his own nest. Their battle was bloody and bitter, and all but Azor himself was slain by the beast. But after forty days and forty nights of combat, Azor thrust Lightbringer into the monsters heart, and cast him down from his bloodstained perch. The earth erupted where the beast of winter fell, forming a huge crevasse. Azor tore down the Mountains of Wyrm to fill in the hole, and built a great castle atop the grave, to seal the beast away forever.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “ _Where the beast of winter fell…_ ” he repeated. “You mean…? But that’s impossible… Brandon the Builder raised Winterfell.”

Melisandre blinked, and turned to Jon, as if seeing him for the first time. She took his hands in hers and pulled him closer. Jon looked into her glowing eyes, half afraid, half in wonder. “Brandon, Azor, what you Westerosi called him is not what matters. What matters is that this monster has been imprisoned beneath the heart of the North for eight thousand years, sealed away by the union of men and R’hllor… but now the dread beast’s chains have been broken. The Others have awoken in the North, the old magic has returned to the world, and the kingdoms of men are consumed by war and hatred and decay.”

 _The cold winds are rising._ Now it was Jon who shivered. “So this thing, this beast I saw in the flames. He is the Great Other you speak of? The White God?”

Melisandre shook her head. “The gods of ice and fire are not of this world, Jon Snow. Rather, this monster serves as the White God’s champion, his instrument in the everlasting war… as you are to the Red God.”

“Does this dragon have a name?”

“It cannot be spoken.”

“Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

Jon stared at her. “If I am what you say, then I ought to know my enemy’s name.”

Her eyes were wide with fear. “Khu’raak,” she whisped eventually. At that moment, the window sprang back open, and a gust of icy wind howled through the cabin, sending Jon’s charts across the floor.

“Khu’raak,” Jon repeated, and gripped her tight. “What does it mean?”

“The word is Old Ashai’in, a language long dead. It is difficult to translate into the common tongue, but my master, Priest Morrow, described it as… “the shadow that blots out the sun”.

“And Lightbringer will destroy it?”

“It must… _or the night will never end._ ”

***

As their haggard vessels pulled into port, it became clear that something was very wrong. Nobody was there to greet them, not even a steward or maester. The docks were slick with frozen brine, and one of the old watchtowers had collapsed into the tide. The windows of Eastwatch seemed dark and empty, and mounds of snow had built up along the posterns, as though no one had used them in months.

 _Gods beneath,_ Jon thought. _Are we too late? Have the Others already come to claim their prize?_ There were no signs of battle. Only neglect.

“W-Where is everyone?” Devan muttered. The rest of the crew were deathly silent.

“Lady Asha,” Jon called. “We’ll drop anchor here, and row the rest of the way.”

“Aye, my lord,” she muttered, shooting him a poisonous glare.

“This may be a trap. I’ll take thirty men ashore to investigate. The rest of you will stay on deck. I want archers covering us from the galleys.” He turned and spotted Queen Melisandre. Her red eyes were upon him. _Is this what she expected? Is this what she saw in the flames?_ “Your grace, I must insist you return to your cabin.”

“ _Cabin! Cabin!_ ” Mormont’s raven shrieked from one of the sails.

Melisandre nodded, and made her way below deck. _You cannot trust her,_ a voice in Jon’s head murmured.

Jon’s arms were sore by the time their rowboats found land. He and his men climbed out, and made their way cautiously to the castle gates. The Wall loomed high above them, a great grey curtain of ice and stone. To some men it might inspire fear, but for Jon, it felt like home.

West of the castle, crows—the feathered kind—were gathered around a small black mound. As they got closer, Jon saw that it was dead bodies, piled and burned. Perhaps their cremation was a measure against Wights, but it seemed to Jon something more sinister was going on.

Even after they’d shovelled the snow from around the castle gates, the iron doors still would not budge. The hinges and arches were frozen shut. So while Garett and Ser Ormund pushed and kicked, Jon traced the outline of the entrance with a torch. After a few minutes they heard a sickening crunch, and the doors of Eastwatch scraped forwards.

Jon led them slowly into castle’s interior. It was dark, and there was a stale smell in the air. Their torchlight splashed against the narrow stone hallways, throwing strange shapes across their path. Jon thought he saw blood spattered on the walls, but it was only mould. They trod lightly, their ears strained for any sounds or signs of movement.

Jon gripped the hilt of Longclaw, loosened it from its scabbard. He was about to draw it when the narrow corridor widened, and the castle’s vast dining hall suddenly appeared before them.

As still and empty as the room was now, it was clear that a struggle had occurred, though how much time had passed since then was anyone’s guess. The overturned tables and chairs had cobwebs strung from them, and the ruffled carpets were coated in dust. Half the shields that had adorned the hall lay scattered.

Jon bent over, and picked up a shield with the faded sigil of House Stark. “Garett, take four men and see if there is anyone alive in the dungeons. Hullard, see if you can find some food in the kitchens or larders. The rest of your, follow Ser Cassen into the wormways, and check if the main gate is still intact. Go quietly, and do not engage with any intruders. Report to me in the rookery with any findings.” The men nodded, and proceeded quickly. Devan had made to follow Ser Ormund, when Jon grabbed his arm. “You’re with me, squire.”

The closer they got to the rookery, the worse the smell became. As Jon swung upon the door, the thick aroma of death and decay washed over them. Devan bent over retching, while Jon pressed ahead. Inside, a dozen ravens lay dead in their cages. Fat white maggots were visible beneath their greasy black feathers. Dried blood spattered some of the pens, where the birds had obviously struggled to get out.

“W-what happened,” Devan trembled, wiping some sick from his mouth.

“They haven’t been fed,” Jon replied, pulling a sheet over some of the cages. “And they couldn’t get out to find—”

 _"Corn!”_ an angry voice shrieked. A small grey raven burst from the corner of the room, and circled Jon twice, before landing on the frost-covered windowsill. _“Corn! Corn!”_

“A survivor!” Devan exclaimed, smiling meekly. “He must have chewed through his cage?”

Jon shook his head. “No. This one is from the Shadow Tower. Look, there’s a message attached to its leg. Fetch it a cup of grain from that chest, and bring me the letter.”

Devan obeyed diligently, while Jon covered the rest of the cages. After handing Jon the note, he closed the shutters, and set about building a fire in the maester’s hearth. Jon unfurled the note and took a seat at the maester’s desk, while the grey raven buried its hungry beak into some oats.

“It’s from Ser Denys.” Jon began to read silently, as the room grew orange with the crackle of flame.

_Lord Snow_

_I was surprised to hear you were still alive, but pleased all the same. We need every man we can muster, and you have proven yourself an able battle commander. As I’m sure you know by now, the Wall from Oakenshield to Queensgate has been shattered, and Castle Black is lost. A great host of dead things has poured through the cracks. They marched south-west, to Hurrik’s Perch, where your lady sister and her wildling hordes are gathered. A great battle is being fought there as I write. For the past seven nights, fires have burned in the mountains from dusk til dawn. King Stannis is sending auxiliary forces to attack their eastern flank, and I have deployed fifty men-on-horses to harass their rear with fire and steel. With any luck, their ranks will become tangled in the mountains, and we will close in on them from all sides._

_But one battle does not win the war, as I’m sure you know, Lord Snow. The Wall must be held, and its damage repaired as soon as possible. King Stannis writes that he has sent four scores of masons and builders with you. Keep them safe and well-fed, and I will inform you of when it is safe to begin constructing a temporary barrier over the ruins of Castle Black. I haven’t received word from Eastwatch in months, so I cannot speak to its current condition or assembly. I doubt either is very strong. Your orders are to re-garrison the castle, and hold it against any attacks from the eastern coast._

_Signed, Ser Denys Mallister, 999 th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch_

 

 _My orders,_ Jon thought bitterly. The date at the bottom of the letter was from two weeks ago. _Who knows if Mallister is even still alive? Or Arya?_ He screwed up the letter, and cast it into the fireplace. _You are sworn to the Night’s Watch,_ a voice whispered, but then he remembered how Bowen Marsh’s cold blade felt as it slid inside him. _I am sworn to no one._ He watched the parchment curl and blacken.

Jon turned, and saw Devan’s eyes were wide with anticipation. He seemed about to say something, when he noticed Jon’s expression.

“The battle in the western hills has started,” Jon muttered. “Ser Denys seems confident.”

Footsteps echoed up the stairway. “Please!” an unfamiliar voice was crying. “Please, I had to… I _had_ to…”

Hullard barged into the room, dragging an old man in filthy, grey robes. “Lord Snow,” he declared. “We found this one in the dungeons. There was a dead boy in there with him. He was… Well, my lord, his legs had been eaten.”

“I had no choice,” the man spluttered. “They left me nothing to eat. I would have starved!” There were tears running down his sunken face. _He is skin and bone,_ Jon thought. “I’m sorry, Lord Snow. I didn’t want to, but… _He was already dead!_ ”

“Who are you?” Jon asked calmly.

“I’m Maester Samson,” the old man said, wiping his tears.

“And what happened here, maester.”

“Mutiny, my lord. After Castle Black fell, some of the men wanted to desert, to take the Watch’s last two ships, and sail to Braavos… The other men called them cravens and oath-breakers. So that evening, the cravens attacked them in the dining hall with swords and knives.” The maester was shaking his head, and Jon helped him into a chair. “They killed them all!  They would have killed me and my steward too, but their leader said ‘no’. He made us drag the bodies outside to be burned. Then he locked us in the dungeons with no food or water. Digham, his name was. I’ll never forget the way he _smiled_ at me as he walked up those stairs. It would have been kinder to kill us…

“Me and my steward, we had to drink our own piss to survive. He died before me. What kind of gods would kill the young, and leave the old to _linger_ …?” The old man looked up at Jon, his eyes pleading for an answer. “I starved as long as I could… until I couldn’t any longer. I confess it; I ate the boy’s legs. I tore the flesh from his bones with my teeth… like an animal… I wept afterwards, and prayed for forgiveness, not that there were any gods to hear me.” His expression hardened. “This never would have happened if Cotter Pyke were still here… He’d have hanged Digham from the Wall, and let the crows feast on his smiling face.”

A heavy silence had fallen over the room. Devan was staring at his feet, while Hullard fingered the hilt of his axe. The maester cowered beneath Jon’s shadow like captured dog. “You have committed a terrible crime,” Jon said after a while. “Most would say death was the more honourable choice. If King Stannis was here he would burn you alive.” The maester nodded in defeat. _My father would have taken your head._ “But I am in charge now, which means your life belongs to me. Therefore, you shall absolve your crimes by serving me, and me alone.”

Maester Samson looked up at Jon. “I will Lord Commander. My life is yours.”

“Good. Hullard, find this man some fresh clothes, and see if Garrett has something for him to eat. After that, take the boy’s body outside, and burn it with the others.”

“Yes, my lord,” Hullard mumbled, still staring at the floor. He helped the maester to his feet, and led him to the stairwell.

“And Hullard.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“See that this grisly tale is not told again, or else I’ll know the one who told it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

When they had left the room, Devan turned awkwardly, and began jabbing at the hearth with a poker. Jon watched the flames curl and crackle. _The darkness is gathering,_ Jon realised. _We are but candles against this storm, the last few rays of sunlight before the endless night._

 _But I will not be so easily snuffed out,_ he swore. _No more waiting on parapets, and hiding behind walls._ _It is time to make our move against the enemy. Ser Denys can wield the shield. I will swing the sword._

***

Jon followed Ser Ormund through the winding tunnels beneath Eastwatch, towards the main gate of the Wall. When Jon asked what he had found, the old knights replied simply that he’d “better come and see it for himself”.

No intruders had been discovered in the castle thus far. The deserters had ransacked the kitchens, but thankfully the storerooms remained unmolested. Garrett and Hullard managed to break the locks with axes, and—to Jon’s relief—discovered enough grain and rations to last the next three years. _We will not starve, at least,_ Jon thought.

They came at last to the main gate, and Jon saw that it was still standing. However, through its cold, iron bars, he glimpsed movement. Tall hairy figures could be seen through the howling frost, and great grey beasts. “ _Giants and mammoths!_ ” Ser Ormund blurted out at last. “And wildlings, lord save us. More than three times our numbers.”

“Thank R’hllor the gates have held this long,” one of Ormund’s men remarked. “Else they’d have ambushed us at port, and strewn our guts among their devil trees.”

 _Southron fool,_ Jon almost replied. “These are Free Folk,” he said instead. “And by the looks of it, they can barely stand, let alone wield a blade.

“Look,” Devan said. “Some of the mammoths have already died.”

Jon nodded. “I knew Cotter Pyke had started settling refugees in the eastern Gift. This must have been the unlucky mob who arrived after Digham and his lot deserted the castle.”

By now, some of the wildlings had realised they were being watched. “Water!” a woman shrieked. “Damn you crows, we need _water_.” They began to rise, one by one—those that could rise—and stagger towards the gates. “Our little ones are dying of thirst. And this seawater is poison.”

“We were promised safe passage,” an old man cried. “The King Crow gave his word. We were to go south, in exchange for our treasures and little ones.” They began to crowd against the gate, pushing their faces and frostbitten hands through the bars.

“Lying crow bastards!” a young boy squealed. “Let us in!” Suddenly there were a hundred bony arms flailing towards them.

 _Are they reaching for our mercy or for our blood?_ Jon thought. Both, it would seem. He wondered if Maester Samson mightn’t be the only survivor here who had tasted the meat of men. Some of the wildlings were spitting, and screaming insults and threats. As the icy bars begun to shudder and creak, everyone but Jon took a step backwards. Ser Ormund drew his sword.

 _This could get ugly,_ Jon realised _._ “The King Crow was killed,” he called back at them, trying to sound calm. “He was pecked to death by his faithless brothers.” He stepped forward, to show them that he was not afraid. “But he has risen again, like a dragon from the flames.” Jon could taste their anger, but he would not turn away.

“Lord Snow?” a familiar voice cut through the rabble. A wide-eyed man in a black cloak was pushing his way through the crowd. “Lord Snow… I… It’s me, Leathers.”

“Leathers,” Jon gasped. Leathers had been one of two wildlings to join the Watch. His face was much thinner than Jon had remembered. “I thought you would have fled south with Tormund.”

“No, my lord… I…” the wildling brother’s mouth hung agape. “Forgive me, Lord Snow, but you were dead… I _saw_ you… I wasn’t there when they stabbed you, but I _saw_ your body in the yard. The Black Brothers and Tormund’s kin were fighting all around… but you just lay there in a pool of red snow.” The other wildlings had begun to quiet down, and back away slowly from the gates. “How?” Leathers breathed. The word was a puff of white air that drifted between the bars.

Jon moved closer. “It’s… It’s a long story. I’m not a wight though, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just a warg.”

Leathers stared back at Jon, long and hard. “No,” he said after a moment, a faint grin creeping across his haggard face. “It’s you, Lord Snow… in the flesh.” The two brothers reached through the gate, and grasped each other’s forearm.

“Leathers, tell me what happened? I’ve been in Winterfell with King Stannis. I’ve only just now gotten back to the Wall.”

Leathers nodded, and gestured to his shivering kin. “We’re starving is what happened. I fled here from Castle Black, after Marsh seized the castle. Val and I took the child hostages with us, and hundreds more joined us on our flight east.”

“The children,” Jon muttered. “Gods, I’d completely forgotten.” Behind Leathers he spied at least three dozen of the child wards they’d collected from Tormund’s host, keepsakes against any wildling mischief south of the Wall. “Did you lose many… many…”

The look of grief on Leathers’ face was answer enough. “Forgive me, m’lord. I’ll tell you anything you want, but we need to get out of this cold. We need to eat. Some of these won’t last the night.”

“Of course. I’m so sorry, Leathers. I had no idea. Ser Ormund, have your men raise the gate.” Ser Ormund raised an eyebrow instead.

“And let this lot in,” a Baratheon soldier scoffed. “Not bloody likely, Snow.”

Jon turned to see the same southron fool from earlier, smirking beneath a mob of chestnut hair. _Better to be hated and obeyed, than loved and betrayed_. Jon moved to face the lad, letting the air fill with silence. “ _Lord_ Snow,” he replied coldly. “And if you open your mouth once more I’ll have you clapped in chains, and thrown into the Shivering Sea.” The soldier’s eyes widened and he made to say something, but held his tongue when he saw Jon’s expression.

“Aye,” Ser Ormund added quickly. “We’ve got no use for soldiers who talk back.” He turned back to the gates. “ _Leathers_ , was it? Can you assure us they’ll be no trouble from your people?”

“Yes ser,” Leathers shivered. “Most can barely walk. The rest will name their sons after you just for giving them a bite of food.”

“Very well,” Ser Ormund nodded. “Raise the gate!”

The wildings that trudged through the wormways of Eastwatch were a sad, defeated mob. Their faces were sullen, and hollowed out from hunger, and their flesh had grown pale and loose across the bones beneath. Some looked up, and nodded to Jon in thanks. Others scowled at him in defiance. But most cast their gaze down, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Many had to be carried into the castle. And more still had died in the previous night, or were so close to death that they were given the gift of mercy. The corpses were dragged into a pile and burned beneath the shadow of the Haunted Forest.

Jon had Hullard thaw some bread from the storeroom, and cook up a large pot of spiced pumpkin soup. The giants and mammoths were unable to fit beneath Eastwatch’s crumbling gate, so they brought out some bushels of apples and turnips for them to eat, as well as a trough of water and some skins of wine. While the wildlings were given fresh cloaks and basins to wash themselves, Jon began unloading some of men and supplies from their ships. Once the dining room was swept and restored to a reasonable level of habitation, Queen Melisandre and her royal guards were escorted into the castle.

Jon sat himself at the knight’s table, and made a place for Leathers on his left, and Ser Ormund on his right, as a sign of unity. Melisandre and her retinue were served at the King’s table, closest to the fire. As the Baratheon men filed in to the hall, they quickly found a seat and began wolfing down the food that had been laid out for them. The wildlings were more tentative. They crept in one by one, freshly bathed, eying the bowls of steaming orange broth with a mixture of longing and caution.

Jon stood up, and gestured them forward. “Please, come in and have a seat. Hullard has prepared some soup and warm bread. Don’t be afraid, the free folk are most welcome here.”

“Lord Snow, speaks true,” Leathers echoed. “Make yourselves comfortable by the fire. I know you are all very tired and hungry, but the nightmare is over.”

“The nightmare’s only just started,” an old man scoffed. “You crows’ll learn that soon enough.” But one by one the wildlings took their seats, and began to eat. And as the flickering hearth painted their shadows upon the walls, some colour began to return to their gaunt cheeks.

“How many are there?” Jon asked Leathers after a time.

“Two hundred,” Leather replied, quaffing some ale from a mug. “Maybe three.”

“And how many can still fight?”

“Fight? Gods, maybe fifty or so. Seventy if you include Black Maris and her spearwives. And six of the giants are still strong. They fare better during the winter than men.”

Jon’s eyes scanned the smokey hall, but there was no sign of her. “And Val?” he breathed. “Did she…?”

Leathers wiped some orange broth from his chin. The look of sadness that passed across his eyes told Jon everything. “She… She helped me get the little ones out of harm’s way… during the mutiny…” He paused, and seemed reticent to continue.

“Tell me everything,” Jon probed. He had meant to sound concerned, but it came out like an order.

Leathers nodded. “While Tormund and his kin were fighting crows in the yard, I found her on the walkway, clutching a knife stained with crow’s blood. She was weeping when she told me what had happened… what Marsh had done to you. I helped her back to Flint’s Barracks, where the children hostages were hiding.

“She guarded their rooms while Jax and I returned to the yard with steel in hand. But by then the free folk were breaking rank and fleeing through the southern gate. A fire raged over the rookery, and dead bodies littered the ramparts. With the tide of battle turning in Marsh’s favour, we fall back to the barracks and started escorting children into the tunnels, out of harm’s way. We figured the crows would be too distracted chasing Tormund to look north.” Jon nodded, his heart breaking at the thought of all those children wandering the Haunted Forest.

“Anyways,” Leathers continued, “once we were on the far side of the Wall, we fled east… away from the carnage. We followed the Wall for weeks and weeks, moving beneath the trees, to hide from Marsh’s patrols. We found hundreds of dead free folk in the forest, and those so close to death it was no use helping ‘em. We burned every corpse we found, and made a ring of flame wherever we set camp… But the winds were so cold they gnawed at our flesh like rats, and dwindled our fires to nothing. When the darkness fell, and the northern winds rose, that’s when they would come: the blue-eyed corpses and their ice-clad masters. They never came in force, thank the gods. Likely they thought us too meek an opponent. But we lost almost a dozen children. They weren’t killed. They just vanished in the night, with nary a cry nor whimper to note their passing. Just gone, like mist.” Leathers’ expression was thick with grief. “That’s what hurt Val the most. She would go off searching for them… and sometimes come back with blood on her clothes. And then one day she just never came back at all.” Leathers spat at his foot, but Jon could see the tears forming in his eyes.

“She might still be alive,” Jon lied. “She knows those lands well. There are places to hide, underground caves and hollows.”

“Might be,” Leathers grunted. “Black Maris and her spearwives joined us outside of Long Barrow, and after that the Wights seemed to keep their distance. We smelt the sea before we saw it, and found hundreds more wildlings waiting for us outside the gates of Eastwatch. There had giants, mammoths, and cattle witht them—a lot more than you saw today. The gates were closed to us though, and the castle was an empty nest. We tried to ram the gates open with mounted tree trunks, but they wouldn’t budge. We tried rafting around the bay, but the water was too choppy. A grown man would die within minutes of touching that icewater, let alone a starving child. So we sat on our arses, and waited, and netted what little fish we could, and ate from the livestock we had herded… and then the mammoths as they died one by one. The cold kept the meat fresh at least. More free folk joined us every day… fleeing the walkers, fleeing the attacks on the Wall. A score or two even made it all the way from Hardhome. They tell me it’s bad up there. Very bad. I’ve heard stories of that place that would make your blood freeze blue.” There was laughter heard from one of the tables, and Jon glanced over to see a wildling woman balancing a spoon on her nose, while some soldiers clapped her on.

“My blood runs black, Leathers, same as yours. And nothing has changed between then and now. I still mean to make for Hardhome.” Jon took a sip of wine, and let that sentence hang in the air for a moment.

Leathers’ eyes had grown wide. “My lord, that… I would… No one admires your efforts to save the free folk more than me, but Hardhome is… it’s lost, along with all those poor fools who sought refuge within it. The lands beyond the Wall are no longer a place for living things… They belong to the Others now.”

“You would have stay at Eastwatch,” Jon inquired, “and guard the Wall.”

“I would not presume to council you my lord.”

“I am asking.”

“Then yes, Lord Snow. The Wall is our best hope against those… those _things_. We are men of the Night’s Watch. We said the words.”

“Aye,” Jon nodded slowly. “We did… _Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death._ ” Leathers’ gaze lowered grimly to the half-empty bowl before him. “The war has started,” Jon continued, taking another sip of wine. “The true war, Leathers. The only war that matters. It started the day Bowen Marsh shoved a knife through my chest, and declared himself the Night’s King reborn. Wildling and crow, Stark and Baratheon—none of it matters anymore. We either fight as one people, or die apart.

“Night’s King…?” Leathers breathed. “Gods beneath.”

“Much and more has transpired since then,” Jon charged ahead. “Castle Black has fallen to our foe, and the Wall stands agape. The Others now march in force across the realm. Mance Rayder and my sister have met them in battle along the western hills. Last Hearth and Karhold guard the Kingsroad and the south-west passage, whilst Lord Mallister defends the gorge and the Bridge of Skulls. And King Stannis holds Winterfell, and is co-ordinating our main force. He has tasked me with regarrisoning Eastwatch, and that’s what I mean to do…

“But there is only so long we can wait within our castles… and hide behind our walls. Eventually we will have to make our move against the enemy. Queen Melisandre believes that Hardhome is where the hammer will fall hardest, and I am inclined to agree.” He left out the part about Lightbringer. “Once Eastwatch is settled, I mean to take Seawolf and a hundred men, sail up the Bay of Seals, and reclaim the city in the name of King Stannis and the Night’s Watch. With the main host of the Others marching on Hurrik’s Perch, the ruins of Hardhome can be fortified, and rebuilt into a base of operations behind enemy lines.” Jon could feel his wolfblood rising as he finally gave voice to the plans he had been formulating these past weeks. He knew others in the room had begun to eavesdrop, but he kept going.

“Hardhome is the key, Leathers. It will be our foothold beyond the Wall—a  spear-point that I can wield against the enemy in his own realm—and a safe haven for any free folk still alive in the wilderness.”

“Aye, you mean to take the fight to them.” Leathers had begun to nod, and his eyes were ablaze with the flickering hearth light. “You do not lack for boldness, Lord Snow. I can see what Mance and Tormund saw in you.”

“I’ll need the free folk on my side. The giants too. Are you with me, Leathers.”

“Always, Lord Commander. What would you have of me?”

“The giants will be of great worth to me at Hardhome. The mammoths too. But I can’t carry them by ship. I want you to take every wildling man and spearwife of fighting strength, and make your way by land to Hardhome, collecting any survivors in the Haunted Forest as you go. I will give you plenty of food and livestock to ration as you see fit, though it would be my preference that some was saved for Hardhome itself. I realise it will be a dangerous trek, but if you stick to the eastern coast, in view of Seawolf, you might just allude the Wights altogether. As I said, their main strength is now concentrated in the south-west.

“Those free folk who cannot fight—the sick and wounded, the children and elderly—

I will shelter here at Eastwatch, under the protection of Ser Ormund, and provide them with food and medical treatment. As they recover, however, they will be assigned duties for the defence and upkeep of the castle.”

Leathers thought for a moment, before draining the last of his mug. “I like this plan, my lord. I will fight for you.”

“But will your kin? Will Black Maris and her spearwives?” Jon saw Maris eying him from the far side of the hall. She was a larger, older woman, with tangled black hair, and a deepset scar where her left ear had once been. She scowled, and whispered something to a younger woman in rusted armour beside her.

“They will,” Leathers replied. “They hate the crows, but they hate the Others more. And they have at least a grudging respect for you, Lord Snow… though they would never admit it to your face.”

“Good.” Jon rose, threw back the last of his wine, and patted Leathers on the back. “I want to be ready to leave by week’s end.”

As he made his way out of the hall to relieve himself, Jon caught the red flash of Melony’s eyes. She was smiling at him, and for the first time since Arya’s letter, Jon felt a glint of hope.


	8. Jon beyond the Wall

** CHAPTER 8 **

**Jon beyond the Wall**

She was calling to him in a frantic, frightened voice—“Jon… Where are you…? Jon, I can’t see…” He was running through the Godswood, and feeling the dry leaves crunch beneath his feet.

“I’m coming Arya,” he cried back, hurrying this way and that. Eerie shadows danced across the forest floor, and the vast trees seemed to sway and creak amidst a foul smelling wind. Black branches twisted together, blotting out the stars above, and the trunks seemed to close inwards, obstructing Jon’s path. “Arya! Keep calling my name!”

“Where are you?” his sister wept. “They’re hurting me…” Sharp leaves raked Jon’s skin as he pushed past them, and he felt his tunic grow wet with blood. Suddenly the trees had faces, and they were smiling at him… _laughing_. The laughter grew and grew, and swelled all around, and he tried to call to his sister again, but he could not make out his own voice.

The forest was so dark now, so very dark. He tripped on a root and stumbled into a clearing. As he fell, he bit hard into his tongue, and watched it splutter into the dirt in a pool of blood. He looked up and saw Ygritte. She had been nailed to the trunk of a weirwood tree. There was an arrow in each of her wrists, and one in her neck, breast, and inner thigh. Blood and tears snaked its way down her pale, naked body. She looked down at Jon, and mouthed the word “why?”

 _It wasn’t me,_ Jon tried to say. _I would never… I loved you…_ But all he could do was cough up blood. A tall, slender figure was approaching them from the woods. Its footsteps were the cracking of ice. A sword seemed to scream with pain as it left its scabbard.

Somewhere in the darkness, Arya was still weeping. “He’s eating me, Jon… Where are you…?”—BANG! BANG! BANG!

Jon Snow woke suddenly to a knocking at his cabin door. “Arya,” he gasped. He reached up and felt his forehead soaked with cold sweat. A dream, he realised, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

A few embers glowed in the fireplace along the far wall. Melisandre was asleep beside him. Her red hair ran down over her hips in a tangled heap. She was curled up and shivering, and Jon pulled the blanket up over her bare body. _I forgot to stoke the fire,_ he thought sleepily.

Another sharp knock landed on his door. “My lord,” the Ironborn called. “You are needed.”

“Coming,” he grunted. The cabin was swaying violently, and Jon could hear the crack of thunder in the sky above. He rose wearily, and pulled on some breeches, boots, and his black cloak. He opened the door to find Roggon Rustbeard dripping from head to toe in saltwater.

“My lord!” he cried over the crash of waves. “These storms are too wild. Any further along this course and we’ll be capsized.” Jon closed his cabin door, and followed Roggon up to the deck. “All the sailors you hired out of White Harbour,” he continued. “I’ve had them working since midnight, fighting against these northern winds—” Roggon paused as a bolt of lightning cracked against the eastern skyline. “They’re all exhausted. A few more hours and they’ll start dropping off the masts like flies.”

“Can we move closer to the coast?” Jon asked. “Use the trees as a windbreaker?”

Roggon shook his head angrily. “No, m’lord. If we expose our bough to the wind, the currents will rip right through it, or else the waves will push us over, and swallow us whole.” The clouds blazed once more, and shook the ship with a violent wave which sent seawater spilling across the deck. Roggon began shouting orders, and threatening to flay any man who wasn’t working. The crew began feverishly scooping up the water with buckets, and throwing it back into the sea.

He turned back to Jon. “In forty years I’ve never seen such gales. The Storm God is angry with us for giving Qarl to the fire god.”

Jon bristled, but held his anger in check. _Now is not the time._ “Can we drop anchor until it passes? Is there an island close by?”

“Aye,” Roggon nodded. “The isle of Skane lies five miles north-east of here.” He leaned over the edge of Seawolf and pointed at the dark blue horizon.

Jon squinted through the haze of rain and spray, but couldn’t see anything. “I’ll take your word for it. Can we make it?”

“Aye, Lord Snow. If we adjust our course, we can be their within the hour. The waters will be shallower there, and the land should provide a break in the winds. My only worry is jagged rocks.”

“Is there any other option?!” Jon yelled over the waves.

“None! Not in this weather, anyhow.”

“Do it then! I’ll send you a dozen more men from below decks if you need them. Send word when we have arrived.”

“Aye, lord commander.” Roggon turned back to the crew and began shouting more orders, using every fourth sentence to curse the Storm God.

Jon made his way back to his cabin, trudging through the inch of icy saltwater which had settled along the walkway. Gusts of half-frozen air roared this way and that, biting at Jon’s ears like a fleet of Dornish bloodflies. _Gods it is cold,_ he cursed, pulling his cloak up over his neck.

He stumbled back into his cabin and slammed the door shut with a sigh of relief. The room was much warmer than he remembered. He turned to find Melisandre kneeling by the fire in a red fur coat. She had lit candles all around the room, and had restoked the hearth into a blazing orange flame. She turned to Jon with a scowl. “You almost let it burn out,” she said accusingly. “That can never be allowed to happen, especially now that we are beyond the Wall.”

Jon took off his cloak, and sat down beside her. “I thought you never slept,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.” He ran the back of his hand along the curve of her neck, and felt the warmth rekindling beneath her flesh. His warmth. She closed her eyes, softening at his touch. Jon slid her coat away, revealing a velvet shoulder.

“No,” she said, shrugging him away. “Not now… I just…” She snatched a small vial from her sleeve, emptied a pinch of its contents into her palm, and cast it into the flames. The fire grew larger, and become laced with tongues of green and dark yellow. “My powers are diminished here.” She corked the vial, and disappeared it once more. “I told you, the White God holds sway over these lands and waters. My connection to R’hllor is more fragile out here. His visions are more taxing, and putrefied by the dark magic of the Others.”

“What do you see in your flames,” Jon asked, watching the firelight spread out over her supple features.

“Storms,” she whispered, with dread in her eyes.

Jon chuckled. “You don’t need R’hllor to tell us that. You need only open your ears. The storm glowers all around us, your grace.” Jon edged closer, so that their knees were touching. “Roggon is mooring us by Skane until it passes.”

“It will not pass,” Melisandre replied quietly. “Not until a sacrifice has been offered to the Lord of Light.” Jon’s gaze returned to the flames, and he remembered Qarl burning on the pyre outside of Karhold. He had hated himself for letting that happen… _but the storm had been lifted._

“I see two great battles raging in the west,” she continued. “Storms of blood and steel and bitter sleet…” She closed her eyes and leaned into the glow of the hearth, basking in its liquid heat. “A sea of dead men… pouring into the valley… scrambling up a dark stone spire. Crows fly down, and peck them from the walls… but there are too many. The sea is rising; the ice demons are galloping across a bridge of sorrow, banging upon the gates of your Black Brothers…

“Then there is the great battle in the mountains—savages and corpses fighting upon the side of a cliff—arrows of flame filling the sky… The snows are stained red with blood, and the torches are snuffed out one by one. A little wolf-girl is howling against the gathering dusk. And the horn, Jon Snow!—the horn that cuts through the veil of the world, pealing flesh from men, and taking their bones to thrall. The war rages everywhere, in every corner of the world. Even in the south… dead men have begun to crawl out of their graves, with meat sliding from their faces. Maggots feast upon their brains, and the song of winter flows from their lips…”

The fire dimmed, and she fell back, panting. Her eyes trembled and saw Jon’s worried expression. “I did not want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?” Jon asked.

“Weak,” she mumbled. “Cowed by the enemy. I feel his presence all around me, taunting me, draining my power. It is… exhausting.”

“You’re not alone, you know,” Jon replied, taking her hands in his. “We’re in this together.” He rose from the floor, and fetched a parcel of date loaf from his cabin pantry. He poured two glasses of wine, handed one to Melisandre, and broke off a piece of bread for her. “Here, eat something. It’s no wonder you’re so tired. Your body can’t sustain off hymns of praise. At least not out here.” She smiled, and took a sip of wine. “R’hllor,” Jon said, gesturing to the fire. “Did he show you Winterfell? East Watch?” Melisandre shook her head.

Jon had departed East-Watch-by-the-Sea almost four days ago, and he had worried about it every hour since. For his voyage, he’d taken one of the Manderly galleons—Seawolf—along with one-hundred soldiers, twenty sailors, eight builders, two cooks, a maester, and one of the Ironborn prisoners—Roggon Rustbeard—as captain. The rest, he left to maintain and defend Eastwatch, under the command of Ser Ormund. This included two-hundred Baratheon soldiers, and two-hundred-and-forty of the wildlings who had been discovered north of the main gates. Three of the Manderly galleons remained in Eastwatch’s port, and the three remaining Ironborn prisoners—Asha, Grimtongue, and Tristifer—had been placed in the castle dungeon. Jon had wanted to take Asha with him, given her familiarity with Seawolf, but didn’t feel he could trust her after what happened with Qarl, whom Jon suspected was her lover. Despite his protestations, Jon had also left his squire Devan at Eastwatch, after promoting him to first steward of the castle (though this honour stemmed more from his unique ability to read). Devan was a good lad, but he was also a boy of gentle birth. The men he had selected to garrison Hardhome were battle-worn, and had tested their steel outside the walls of King’s Landing, Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin. Moreover, Lady Seaworth had already lost four children on the Blackwater, and a husband in the Wolf’s Den. Jon had no desire to rob her of her eldest living son.

He knew some of the Baratheon men might name his expedition to Hardhome an act of defiance against Stannis, but Melisandre had spoken in the mission’s favour, and so far, no displeasure had been voiced towards Jon. Though, mayhaps that was the most dangerous type of discontent – the sort left unaired. He would need to maintain an iron command over his men, and heed the sage council of his queen. But most all, he would need to keep his sword-hand primed. Jon didn’t think he could take another Bowen Marsh. Even now, the memory stung.

“I saw a ship though,” Melisandre broke the silence. “A large galley, sailing south-east from Storrhold’s Point.”

Jon chuckled again. “Forgive me your grace, but I think we’re the only ship foolish enough to sail into these treacherous waters.”

***

The next morning, Jon climbed onto the deck of Seawolf to find the gnarled forests of Skane spread out before him. Roggon had dropped anchor some two hundred feet from the shoreline, so close that Jon could smell wet grass and leaves from across the water. A layer of frost coated the treetops, and soldier pines and heart trees could be heard thrashing amidst the northern winds. Ghost stirred within him. It felt good to sense land again. He was learning as much as he could of shipcraft, but in his heart, Jon had no taste for the sea. He yearned to feel the earth beneath his feet again, to hunt the forests of the night, as Ghost had, so many moons ago.

“How long until these clouds pass?” Jon called to the captain.

“Hard to sa-ay, m’lord,” Roggon replied, his words slightly slurred by his morning skin of wine. “Last night’s storm has pass-passed on, but the morning brought a new one. We’ll be at anchor for at least a day.” Jon nodded. He would have preferred to set off sooner rather than later, but Roggon could hardly control the weather.

“I have a mind to go ashore, to search for any food or freshwater the isle might hold.”

“As you say m’lord.” Roggon hiccupped. “I’ll have the lads lower a row boat. Bring back some tim-imber, if you think of it. The second spar is in need of reinforcement.”

Jon took a dozen men with him, to bridge the water between Seawolf and the shore. As he rowed, he recalled a story Old Nan had told him about Skane, about how the island was once peopled by tribes very similar to the wildling clans beyond the wall. One day, however, cannibal raiders from Skagos attacked them, carrying off their women and children, and devouring their men in a feast that lasted a fortnight. Since then, the island had remained uninhabited. Men from East Watch claimed it was haunted.

Jon had never even considered going to the Skagosi for aid. Technically speaking, they were vassals of Winterfell, and could be summoned by Lady Arya or King Stannis. But there had been very little contact between the Starks and the Skaggs over the past century, and if Old Nan’s tale had been true, they may not be the kind of vassals he would want serving him or his sister.

When the boat sloshed to a halt in the tide, they jumped out and dragged it the remaining distance to shore. Despite the chill, Jon slipped off a glove, and pressed his hand into the half-frozen beach. He scooped up a handful of coarse sand and broken shells, and let it drain through his fingers. He closed his eyes in breathed in deep. A thousand earthy smells filled the air. The forest was calling him.

“Spread out and search the area,” he commanded. “Gather up any nuts or berries you can find. Keep your eye out for game. Alyn, escort Maester Samson to search for healing plants. Jace and Lenyrd, chop down a few trees, and start filling the boat with timber. We’ll meet back here before noon. Roggon has the horn in case of an emergency,” he gestured towards Seawolf. “Keep your ears open and don’t get lost.” The men nodded and set their feet to the task.

Jon ventured into the forest alone. The trees that closed in around him were old. _Very old._ Their thick, tangled roots broke all along the forest floor, making it very difficult to walk in a straight line. Some of the trunks had rotted out, but the vast cobweb of limbs seemed to hold the crumbling husks in place. Jon could smell no signs of life, nor sense any movement between the black branches that raked at his arms and face. _Most of the islands beasts are likely holed up in caves for the winter, while all of the birds will have flown south._

He wandered for the better part of an hour, until the breaking of the tide and the sounds of his soldiers disappeared beneath a veil of deathly silence. _Is this what the world is like without living things in it?_ Jon mused. Is that what will become of the world, should the Others triumph. Suddenly, Jon found himself in a large, mist-strewn clearing, and stopped dead.

Standing before him, its eyes gaping with sorrow, was the largest weirwood that Jon Snow had ever seen. Its root covered the earth like a nest of giant serpents, rising and falling and rising again, almost as high as Jon’s chest. Its trunk was as wide and tall as a maester’s rookery, rising so high, that its top was swallowed by winter fog. A thousand mighty branches (each the size of a small tree) splayed out in every direction, stretching deep into the woodline at the borders of its grove. It was almost as though the entire forest sprouted from this one trunk. It was a cathedral of ancient bark, and carved upon its surface, was a face of the old god as sad and lonely and forgotten as any he’d gazed upon.

The despair hit him all at once. He fell to his knees, wondering who had made such a thing, and how long ago. It could have been thousands of years, before the Targaryens, before the Rhoynar, before the Andals. One of the First Men had sailed to this island during the dawn of days, and knelt in this very place. “What did he pray for?” Jon wondered aloud. Jon imagined the centuries, the millennia that had passed between then and now, and how that face might have gazed at nothing, an empty island. Would Jon be the last human this wooden god ever saw? Would the Others triumph, and bring upon the world an Age of Dusk? Would they travel to Skane and rip this tree from its roots, and cast it into the Shivering Sea? Or would they not even now it existed? And then tree would sit alone until the end of time, wondering what had become of those cunning beasts named _man_.

Suddenly Jon was overcome with fear and melancholy, and began to weep uncontrollably. His sobs filled the wide grove. To his ears they were manic, almost childlike. Jon quickly composed himself, and wiped the tears from his face. When he opened his eyes, however, he saw a different face staring back at him.

 _Is that a horse?_ He wondered. It looked very much like a horse, except it was smaller and broader, and covered in a woolly main; and from the centre of its head protruded a single, white, ribbed… horn. _A unicorn,_ Jon gasped. The creature didn’t flinch, but its watery black eyes remained fixed on Jon. Jon gazed back. He wanted to call out to it, to touch it, but he was afraid it would vanish if he moved a muscle. And so they gazed at one another in still silence. The wind faded between them, and the leaves were stilled.

Just then, a horn sounded. Jon turned his head instinctively. It was coming from the beach, from Seawolf. His gaze turned back to the unicorn… but it was gone, as though it had never existed at all.

Jon emerged from the forest to find his men climbing back onto the galleon. Sailors were drawing up the anchor. Roggon was standing in a row boat, gazing into the north with a Myrish skyglass. He turned, his face bright red from wine and chill.

“Lord Snow,” he bellowed excitedly. “I spotted a ship sailing south-west. Just over the horizon, there.” Jon took the instrument, and gazed into its curved glass. Sure enough, a stout blue galley was chugging along.

 _Melisandre was right,_ he realised. _She saw this in her fires. Could she be right about the storms too?_ “Who are they?” he asked the Ironman. “Whalers from Ibben?”

“Slavers, more like.”

Jon bristled. Cotter Pyke had told him slavers had plundered women and children from Hardhome. Was this the same ship? If so, Jon meant to see them answer for those crimes.

“Can you catch them?” He asked. His wolfblood had stirred and he was suddenly spoiling for a fight.

“Of course I can, boy. I am Ironborn. The sea is in my blood.”

Seawolf cut lean and clear across the choppy waters of the bay, curving against wave and frozen shard. The wind shook ice from their mast and ropes, but Roggon managed to curve into it, somehow filling the sails and propelling faster and faster towards the slavers galley.

“Archers, at the ready,” Jon roared. “Soldiers, stay hidden, but make sure you are ready to board. No one makes a move unless I give the command. Sailors to the portside. Have your ropes and hooks in hand. Cast off when we are within twenty feet, and not an inch sooner.”

Jon could see Roggon grinning with anticipation. This one is Ironborn to the bone. He thinks we are plundering this vessal. _Mayhaps we will._

Seawolf quickly closed the gap between the two ships. Jon counted a dozen men on the rival deck. Only the gods knew how many were below, but judging by the fear in their faces as the Night’s Watches sails smothered them in shadow, the slavers were outmatched.

Jon watched as they withdraw their sails, tossed an anchor into the waves and began to gather where Seawolf approached.

“Lower the anchor!” Roggon roared. Jon strode down to the lower level and towards the portside of the ship. Two Baratheon soldiers were either side of him. He leaned out over the railing.

About half thirty feet of freezing water separated Seawolf from this foreign vessel. He squinted through the mist to see the men on the other side. Their faces were gaunt, their expressions dour and their flesh pale as sleet. Jon noticed that beneath a blanket of snowflakes they had beards dyed with blues and purples and pinks. There was colour in their woolen cloaks as well.

“I am Jon Snow, castellan of East-Watch-by-the-Sea. Who are you men and what business have you north of the wall?”

“Forgive us, my lord,” a tall, thin man called back. “We are merchants from Tyrosh. We were sailing to Ib, to trade silks and dyes for whale blubber and seal-skins.” Jon did not know if the man’s accent matched Tyrosh, but it certainly sounded more Free City than Westerosi. “The winter winds,” he continued. “They have been savaging us for ten days. We lost course and must have drifted further north than we realised.”

“These waters are subject to the Night’s Watch. It is forbidden to enter them without our leave.”

“We humbly beg your pardon,” another man chimed in. His accent with thicker, and his mustache was pink and so long that it touched his chest. “The mists obscured our path. Much of our stock is ruined anyway. We were attempting to make the voyage home when you came across us.”

“ _Merchants_ you say?” Jon probed. “So if we come aboard and look below your decks, we’ll find nothing but frozen pots of dye.”

“Please ser,” the tall man replied. “There is no need to trouble yourselves. We would be happy to pay you ten gold dragons if you would pardon this inconvenience and point us due south.”

“As men of the Night’s Watch it is our duty to search this vessel for smuggled goods. If you resist or draw a weapon you will be killed. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord, but this is entirely unnecessary.”

“Board them!” Jon bellowed.

The gang of shivering Tyroshi barely had a moment to withdraw from the edge of the ship before roped hooks began sprouting from the wood. Roggon was the first on board, quickly taking charge and herding them into the centre of the deck with a barrage of curses and threats. Jon followed close behind, though he was cautious as he crossed the rope ladder. One false move and he would plunge into the Shivering Sea below, where an agonizing death awaited.

As promised, they found crates of dyes and reams of silk below decks, along with an assortment of rubies and gems that the tall man had neglected to disclose.

"Did you trade the wildling for these?” Jon demanded.

“No ser, I swear it,” the thin man retorted in increasingly higher tones. “This is currency from Tyrosh. We brought it to trade with the Ibenese, or any other seafolk along the coasts whose wares or board we fancied.”

“What’s in here then?” a Baratheon soldier said gruffly. Jon wandered over to where a crate had been heaved aside. Beneath it was a large trap door bolted shut with iron.

“Open it,” Jon ordered.

“This is all a misunderstanding,” the pink-beard man kept insisting.

Jon was losing patience. “Open it now or I’ll pick the lock with your jaw bone.”

The thin man quickly produced a key from his sleeve and opened the lock with a rusted click. As Roggon heaved the door open, the smell of human misery and suffering wafted from below. Jon could also make out the sound of muffled tears. He grabbed the Tyroshi by the scruff of the neck and heaved him down the stairs with a yelp.

Jon then snatched a torch from a nearby soldier and stomped after him. In the bowels of the ship they found over a hundred wildlings. There were men, women and children, all packed together – filthy, frightened and smothered with chains.

“They are only savages,” Jon heard someone say. He turned to find the pink-bearded man climbing down the damp wooden steps. “Forgive our deception, Lord Snow, but poor wretches such as these are hardly worth noting on a manifest. It was true what Rolland said about trading with the Ibenese. That was our intent, but these ungodly storms sent us astray. We were on our way home... but the thought of returning empty-handed was utterly intolerable.”

“So you helped yourself to some human lives?” Jon finished.

He felt the Tyroshi’s hand rest on his shoulder. “They won’t fetch much in the markets. Wildings are notoriously difficult to train. But the men should prove good sport in the fighting pits, and the women... well, the winesots of Volantis and Astapor have never been all that picky.”

Jon shrugged the man’s hand away in disgust and ventured into the crowd. One man with red hair and bulging muscles had been fastened to the floor by his neck. His back with purple with bruisers. _He must have put up quite a fight,_ Jon thought. Even now he pushed and tugged at the iron. A women not much older than Jon clutched a boy and girl to her chest. They cowered their head in fear as Jon’s shadow loomed over them.

“I’m from the Night’s Watch. You’re safe now.” The woman looked up angrily and spat at his feet.

“Come now, Lord Snow,” the Tyroshi hissed. “When we found them they were near death and begged for passage across the sea. We are holding up our end."

"Slavery is outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms," Jon fumed. "The punishment is death."

"But we are not in the Seven Kingdoms, are we?" was the man's retort. "What can you and your crows offer them, except more cold and death. At least in Essos they have a chance. If they learn to take a command, some of these men may even serve as laborers. And there’s a few comely women amongst the drek.” He motioned to the woman and her children. “A good scrub, a little perfume, a firm hand, and this one could fit right in at the pleasure houses of Lys.”

He grinned a slimy grin. “You don't fool me Jon. You are a man of the Night’s Watch. Don’t tell me you haven’t tasted the fruits of the wild.” He laughed.

The wolfblood surged within Jon, and everything went black.

Before he knew it, Roggon and another soldier were dragging him to one side of the room. The wildlings were hurrying away, and Jon caught expressions of shock and fear in the swinging torchlight.

He looked down at his hands to find them bruised and bloody. A few feet in front of him lay the pink-haired Tyroshi. His face had been reduced to a red ruin and his hand has switching against the wooden decks.

“Get these people some food from the Tyroshi’s stores,” Jon managed to puff. “And have Maester Samson see to their wounds.”

“And the slavers?” Melisandre asked. He turned his head to see her at the foot of the stairs, impassibly lovely, even in this wretched place. “What is to be done with them?” He eyes flashed dark red.

“Build them a raft.” Jon ordered.

The raft was assembled from the shelves of the Tyroshi’s storeroom, and bound together with their precious silk. Jon had the remaining slavers tossed onto the raft and doused in lantern oil. He could faintly make out their cries for mercy as he kicked the raft into the waves. “Fire or ice,” was all he said to them. “The choose is yours.”

When they were far enough away, he notched a bow, lit it, and loosed it at the raft. The arrow landed, and the raft bloomed like an orange rose. Their screams of torment pierced the icy wind. But not one of them jumped into the sea. Fire was a kinder fate than having your lungs fill with ice water as you watched the world vanish above your head.

“Rh’llor will be pleased.” Melisandre whispered, squeezing Jon’s arm. “He will still the waters and clear a path for us to Hardhome.”

He was, and he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments (both positive and critical) are very much appreciated. Thanks! :)


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